


Pack

by Cleo_Calliope



Series: Where My Homage is Due [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alpha Lestrade, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Case Fic, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Overdosing, Pack Dynamics, Pre-Series, Serial Killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:56:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 82,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2105382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is a newly promoted Detective Inspector who, despite his natural dominance, has never wanted to be a Pack Leader with all it's incumbent responsibilities.  A junky, a serial killer, and a shadowy government type may just make him reassess his priorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“The kid’s as high as a kite.”

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade sighed, nodding at the officer who had just reported that they had caught an intruder on their crime scene. As he headed back into the house he could hear the argument before he even entered the room next to the one the body was in.

“Look you...” said one of the officers, clearly angry.

“Are you all completely blank?” demanded an imperious voice, the tone and accent nearly screaming public school and money. “The idea that the brother could possibly be involved is preposterous! Haven’t you checked for the documents? They’re probably under the victim’s mattress. He clearly wasn’t the imaginative type. For pity’s sake, look how his desk is arranged.”

Entering the dining room Greg saw that the young man who had been pressed into a chair with no fewer than three officers around him was indeed little more than a kid. In his early twenties at the most, he was skinny to the point of emaciation with deep circles beneath his eyes. He was jittery with whatever it was he’d taken; hands never still. A mop of black curls hung into nearly colourless eyes which were bloodshot but still startlingly piercing when they turned on Greg.

The kid looked him up and down as though sizing him up before speaking again, with a confidence at odds with his wild appearance.

“Only recently promoted. The fiancée isn’t nearly as excited about you being a D.I. as she lets on. Probably worried about the extra hours you’ll be working. You’re marrying a beta even though you’re a fairly dominant alpha because you don’t want a whole pack of children at home to distract you from the job. In fact, you’re not particularly interested in being a Pack Leader at all despite how hard you worked for this promotion because of the distraction the responsibly for your packmates would be.”

Greg blinked. He’d suspected Ann wasn’t as thrilled with his promotion as he himself was. It was also true that the fact that he would likely end up serving as Pack Leader to at least a few of those under his command who lacked other ties was, for him, one of the few downsides of his new position. But to hear it all laid out like that in a clipped, matter-of-fact tone from a junkie he’d never met before was...

He glanced at Jones, a long-time Sargent and a solid officer. The guy just shook his head indicating that he was as lost as Greg himself was.

“Piss off.”

Greg would be the first to admit that it was somewhat lacking as a comeback. What it might have lacked in originality, however, it made up for in being truly heartfelt.

It took longer than Greg would have liked to deal with the kid. He would have hauled him down to the yard under suspicion of murder if the house’s security hadn’t clearly been bypassed by someone who knew all the codes. Even then, he debated whether or not the kid could have some complicity in the crime. He simply knew too damn much. Then again, he seemed to know too damn much about everyone and everything.

In less than a half an hour they all learned far more about each other’s private lives than any of them wanted to know. And while Greg wasn’t about to take some doped-up kid’s word for it, he privately decided that he’d look into the possibility that one or two of his officers had something that needed hiding.

When they had finally managed to eject their unwelcome visitor from the crime scene, everyone set about work again with the stiff demeanours of those who knew that everyone around them knew things about them that they didn’t want them to know. Greg was just thankful that he hadn’t had anything particularly salacious to be revealed at this point in his life.

Everyone was attempting to convince each other that _no one_ could possibly know that much about complete strangers.

Still, Greg was incapable of not heading upstairs as soon as he could and checking under the victim’s mattress. The envelope of documents he found meant that the case was closed quickly enough for him to get home to Ann on time for once.

The kid had been right, the brother had not been involved.

* * *

The second time the kid turned up was after the body had been taken away. The forensics team was just packing up and Greg was taking a final walk through of a mid-level solicitor’s office. He found the kid studying a bit of frayed carpeting in the corner of one of the partners’ offices.

Two weeks wasn’t nearly enough time for Greg to have forgotten him.

In the small office, without lots of others to fill up the space with their pheromones Greg got his first real scent of him. It turned his stomach. There wasn’t simply the chemical tang that many of the cheaper drugs left about someone. He was also clearly using some kind of low grade suppressant and a kind of cheap synthetic pheromone masker layered on top of it. The result was an unpleasant alpha-ish scent. It reminded him a little of the cheap perfume one of his elderly aunts had worn, smelling of chemical based vanilla. You could tell what it was supposed to be, but what it really was was headache inducing.

“You didn’t smell this bad last time,” he observed. He was sure if the kid’s scent had been this offencive he would have noticed.

The kid shrugged up one shoulder, broadcasting disinterest.

“I was down near the docks earlier where everyone uses those cheap synthetic maskers. I wanted to pass for a new arrival who was down on his luck. Your officers are useless and your forensics team isn’t much better.”

Greg perched on the edge of the desk with his arms folded, watching the kid as he knelt down in the corner and began tugging at one side of the carpet. He should, of course, either be arresting him or booting him out. The evidence had already been collected, though, and after the last time Greg could admit to a certain amount of curiosity.

“Why would you want to pass for an easy mark down by the docks? It’s a good way to get yourself knifed.”

The kid half-turned at that and flashed one colourless eye and half a quick grin. “To find out about a smuggling ring down there.”

A lecture about allowing the police to do their job, leaving things to the professionals, and personal safety was on the tip of Greg’s tongue. He bit it back as he was fairly sure that at best he’d get an eye roll. If this kid was going to listen to the police he wouldn’t be inside a posted crime scene illegally. Greg wondered if there was a pack to appeal to but found he doubted it.

In the end, it was the innate curiosity that had made Greg want to be in the CID in the first place that formed a reply.

“And?” Greg asked as the kid went back to tugging at the carpet.

“Early days,” he said dismissively. “Ah!” At that a whole portion of the carpet came up smoothly. Greg opened his mouth to object to the destruction of property before he saw that this section of the carpet hadn’t actually attached to the wall or floor. Reaching under the kid pulled out a file folder and held it up triumphantly.

“Okay, how?” Greg asked, pulling out a tissue and using it to snatch it from him before the kid could open it and compromise the evidence.

“Simple,” he answered, crowding over him as Greg sat down in the squeaky office chair. He pulled on a pair of gloves and opened the folder gingerly, careful not to disturb any finger prints. “The wear on the carpet clearly shows that someone walked over to that corner more often than to the window on the other side of the room and only slightly less often than to the desk. Why would someone walk over to a blank corner so often? If they had been walking to something that had once stood there, there would be indentations in the carpet. There are none. What there is, is a frayed spot at the edge of the carpet, a sign of neglect that nowhere else in this office shows. That something was then hidden beneath that carpet edge was obvious.”

No, it wasn’t obvious, Greg thought, but it made sense and was decidedly clever. The kid was observant and smart. It was a shame he was frying that excellent brain of his with whatever drugs he was taking.

“Your victim was killed because he discovered the firm’s illegal activities,” he said, pointing over Greg’s shoulder at the first page.

“I’d like to look through all the evidence before jumping to a conclusion, thanks,” Greg said, closing the folder and carefully bagging and tagging it.

“And _then_ you’ll jump to conclusions,” came the sour rejoinder. “The question is why would they leave the evidence in so obvious a place when they killed him, knowing that the police would search the premises?”

It was a valid question and the way he’d found the files had been clever. Of course, Greg’s men *should* have found it themselves and he’d be having a word with them about that.

He sat back in the office chair and looked up at his crime scene intruder.

“I had to take disciplinary action against one of my officers last week,” he said conversationally. The kid shrugged, disinterested and started poking through the filing cabinet behind the desk. “You were right, he does have a methamphetamine problem. Takes one to know one?”

“I wouldn’t touch meth if you paid me,” the kid stated derisively.

“So what are you on?” Greg asked.

“Cocaine. Sometimes morphine,” was the nonchalant answer.

“Jesus.” Greg shook his head. “A brain like that and you’re frying it with chemicals?” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer. He’d known far too many addicts over the years to think that anything he said would make a difference. “What’s your name?”

The kid turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. “I don’t have a record.”

Greg just waited.

“Sherlock,” the kid said finally.

“Seriously?” Greg asked, trying not to laugh. That was a new one.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s a family name,” he said, diving back into the filing cabinet.

“And if I try to find your family?”

“I’m over eighteen. I can do as I please.”

Which answered that question.

“Where do you live?”

A brief glimpse of a pale, suspicious eye. “Wherever I want.”

Streets then. Despite the kid’s – _Sherlock’s_ – clean cut appearance, Greg had suspected as much.

The filing cabinet was slammed shut as though it had somehow offended its searcher.

“Why would they leave those files? Yes, yes... of course!” He began to pace the office as he spoke, waving his hands to punctuate his points. “Not only was this not planned but the person who killed him didn’t know that the files were there. Someone who knew enough to realise they had a problem but not so in on it as to know where the files are kept. But someone who *thinks* he’s far enough in to make big decisions on his own.”

He turned to Greg with triumph in his eyes.

“Your murderer, Detective Inspector, is one of the junior staff. Someone likely of limited intelligence but who believes themselves to have a great deal more mental faculties than they, in fact, do. An all too common failing. Someone with a quick temper who has a history of rash, ill-advised behaviour. He also thinks that his bosses rely on him when, in fact, they merely make use of him. He will likely have already made himself disagreeable by quoting the law at officers and looking down his nose at them. He will have an inflated sense of his own importance and may honestly believe that he is untouchable simply because he is a solicitor. When put under pressure, however, he will roll on his bosses without much provocation. Make him believe you have him wrapped up, that you know he did it and can prove it. He’ll crack in less than an hour. Probably within fifty minutes.”

It all made perfect sense, Greg realised with more than a bit of surprise. It was a lot to get simply by finding some files under the carpet, but when put that way it all seemed entirely obvious.

Sitting in the office chair watching this bizarre junkie describe their murderer in detail was one of the oddest experiences of Greg’s life. It was also, he realised, one of the most exhilarating.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked around the room again.

“Dull,” he declared. “There was no real challenge in this at all.”

With that he swept out of the room. Greg let him go, wondering what he was doing even listening to a junkie. Still, he was sure he knew who the murderer was now. Sherlock was right, one of the junior members of the firm had already made himself far more unpleasant than was necessary and there had been something distinctly slimy about him.

It took forty-one minutes and 15 seconds to break the junior associate and won Greg twenty quid from one of his sergeants who hadn’t agreed that he could be broken in under an hour. 

Once again, Greg got home on time. He used the money to treat Ann to a movie.


	2. Chapter 2

As spring stretched into summer the sight of a gaunt figure under a mop of unruly dark curls became an all too familiar one around crime scenes. 

And he was always Greg’s problem, no one else’s. He’d shown up at the crime scenes of a few other DIs but only Greg was an idiot enough – according to his colleagues – to encourage him.

Twice Greg had been informed that “his junkie” had been arrested at someone else’s crime scene. What was odd about both cases, however, was that he’d been out again before Greg could go down and ask him what happened. Literally within an hour of being picked up there was someone there with all the paperwork to get him back out again. It was actually kind of creepy. You’d have thought he had some powerful family looking after him, which Greg could have believed from the way the kid talked and acted. However, homeless junkies didn’t normally have family. At least, not family they could find or would acknowledge them.

However, when Sherlock turned up again at one of Greg’s crime scenes all of Greg’s questions regarding this oddity were ignored. Sherlock clearly had no intention of answering any questions about himself. But had there been the faintest flush to his cheeks, a fleeting expression of embarrassment on his too pale face? Greg honestly wasn’t sure. He filed it away nonetheless.

It was only at Greg’s crime scenes that Sherlock could come and deduce unmolested. Everyone thought Greg mad for that, but the fact was that the kid was unbelievable. His intellect was staggering and his ability to put the pieces needed to solve a case together quickly and efficiently was unlike anything Greg had ever seen before, ever even imagined.

When he could be persuaded to explain his methods, why he knew who was responsible or where the evidence they needed could be found, it all seemed so absurdly simple. And yet Greg knew he couldn’t have got there nearly so quickly himself, if at all. He didn’t know anyone else who could. It wasn’t that Greg wasn’t good at his job, he would never have got the promotion to Detective Inspector if he hadn’t been.

Sherlock, though, Sherlock was something else altogether.

As the summer wore on into autumn, though, it became harder and harder for Greg to ignore the fact that Sherlock was destroying the very thing that made him so extraordinarily unique. Being a cop meant dealing with junkies and Greg knew better than to think that there was anything he could do. Junkies did what they were going to do. Period. It didn’t alter the fact that the thought of Sherlock ruining that amazing mind like that was something that was starting to eat at him more and more.

He mentioned it, even made offers of assistance. Sherlock simply pretended he hadn’t said anything at all when he did.

Unfortunately, Greg simply couldn’t do any more than that. As long as Sherlock was unwilling to change there was nothing more anyone could do.

* * *

“Greg, can I talk to you for a moment?” 

Greg turned to see his DCI leaning out of his office.

“Sure,” Greg said, turning back around toward the office he’d just passed.

Detective Chief Inspector Chamberlain was a good man and a damn fine officer, someone Greg both respected and admired. Which was more than could be said for some of those farther up the yard’s food chain. As he shut the door behind Greg, the DI got the impression that his superior was honestly worried about something.

“Everything alright, sir?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” Chamberlain sat behind his desk and motioned for Greg to take a seat as well. “Any of your cases in the last few months looking like they might have been political?”

Greg blinked as he took a seat and shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Chamberlain frowned. “I was afraid you’d say that. Look, I don’t know what’s going on but it seems that someone in the Home Office has been asking about you.”

“The Home Office?” Greg asked, confused.

“And not just asking about you,” Chamberlain continued. “It seems that without anyone bothering to tell me about it, someone over there ordered a complete copy of your records and case history a couple months ago.”

Greg sat up, startled and more than a bit uneasy. “Why am I only hearing about this now?” Greg demanded. 

Chamberlain spread his hands, helplessly, his frustration evident. “ _I_ didn’t even know about it until now. I just found out today that even my evaluations of you had been accessed. I’ve been doing my best to find out what the hell is going on but so far I’m not having much luck. Everyone is being really close-lipped about this.”  
Greg swore. “Look I have no idea what this could be about. I’ll start reviewing my back cases right away, though. If there was some political angle to something that I missed, I’ll find it.”

Chamberlain nodded. “I’ll continue to do what I can from this end. I don’t like it when people start taking a hard look at one of my officers and I sure as hell have no patience with it being done behind my back.” His frown had grown positively fierce as he glared down at the report lying open in front of him and Greg was reminded of the reputation the man had had when he’d still worked the streets. He was protective of his people even now and Greg didn’t doubt there would be some serious words had on some rather high levels about this.

“The name ‘Holmes’ mean anything to you?” he asked, focusing on Greg again.

Thinking about it, Greg had to shake his head. “I don’t think so. Why?”

His DCI shrugged. “It was a name that came up when I was asking about all this. But as soon as I tried to ask more about who ‘Holmes’ was I was shut down damn fast.” He pierced Greg with one of his stern looks. “Whoever Holmes is, it’s someone with a hell of a lot of clout to be able to go over my head like this regarding one of my own officers and to have everyone upstairs keeping their mouths shut. Look over your cases starting maybe four or five months ago and _be careful_. I don’t know what this is about, but if it’s big enough for someone like the Chief Superintendent to go over my head like this it’s dangerous as hell.”

Greg nodded, accepting both the warning and the dismissal.

Greg had no idea what he’d stumbled into but he was damn well going to find out.

* * *

The call had come at nearly midnight, rousting Greg out of a nice warm bed and into a chilly night. The wind had blown the rain of earlier in the day away, leaving a clear sky and plummeting temperatures in their wake. 

Detective Sargent Jones was waiting for him when he arrived on scene.

Greg had always found the old train tunnels from the nineteenth century picturesque, but under the harsh florescent lights of the crime scene teams they just looked sadly worn. It wasn’t the first time he’d been down here because of a body. Back when he’d been in uniform he’d been down here plenty of times to help with removal of an OD or a sidewalk sleeper who’d died in the night. The look on Jones’ face was enough to tell him that this wasn’t going to be anything like those times.

“Couple of homeless kids found the body about an hour ago. They were looking for someplace out of the wind to sleep.”

As he approached the scene a uniform hurried passed him to be violently ill.

The stench of blood and waste was palpable even before Greg reached a small alcove formed by two brick walls not quite meeting. At first glance Greg couldn’t even tell what the sex the poor sod had been, never mind permutation. The face was largely unmarked but so smeared with blood and contorted in fear and pain that beyond the fact that the individual had been young and Caucasian, there was little else he could determine. Below the face...

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, feeling his gorge rise.

“Eviscerated,” Jones acknowledged grimly. He motioned to where one of the coroner’s crew was crouched over something he couldn’t see from this angle. He could, however, see the pool of blood spreading out from it. “What’s still here is over there.”

Despite his years on the job Greg had to swallow several times before he was sure he wouldn’t be ill. There were some things you never got used to. Then again, he was firmly of the opinion that the day murder didn’t affect you was the day you were no longer fit to serve as an officer of the law.

Looking over the coroner’s shoulder he could see a pile of entrails and less easily identifiable internal organs.

“Is it all here?” he asked.

The man shook his head. “No, the reproductive organs are entirely missing. She was either a beta or an omega but we’ll probably have to use blood tests to figure it out. There’s nothing here to tell me one way or another.”

“Shit,” Greg muttered. “The press will be screaming about there being another Jack the Ripper around in no time. Right,” he said turning to his men. “We have a hell of a mess to get through. Let’s work the scene.”

* * *

It shouldn’t have surprised him that they had barely started before a uniform hurried up to him to tell him that they had caught an intruder. 

Heading back over to the alcove from where he’d been discussing the body’s removal with the coroner’s team he was unsurprised to find Jones standing guard over a petulant Sherlock.

Jones just shrugged helplessly as Greg approached.

“How did you get here so fast?” Greg demanded.

Sherlock gave him a disdainful look, which served to remind Greg that Sherlock himself was homeless. Greg was in his territory now.

“Her name was Cynthia,” he said flatly. His voice had lost something of it usable acerbity. Instead, he just sounded tired. “At least that’s what she went by and I’m fairly sure it was her actual name. She never mentioned her last name that I know of. She was sixteen or maybe seventeen...” He seemed to think about it. “No, I’m sure she would have been sixteen. By her accent, she came from Milton Keynes. I didn’t really know her as such. She kept mostly to herself, hadn’t joined one of the local packs but wasn’t ostracised by them either. Hadn’t been on the streets long, only about two months or so. Didn’t use. Didn’t cause trouble. She did turn the occasional trick but she wasn’t a pro.”

Oh hell, Greg thought. He’d never seen the boy so subdued as he was now, standing over the body of a girl he barely knew. He suddenly seemed very young. All the more so because he was trying to hide that this affected him at all. Greg wanted desperately to pull Sherlock away from the body but knew also that he wouldn’t be thanked for it. He doubted acknowledgement of Sherlock’s distress would be met with anything but hostility.

There was a beat of silence where Greg searched for something to say before Sherlock seemed to pull himself together and began his usual rapid-fire deductions regarding the kind of scalpel used, the level of medical knowledge the killer would have to have had, and the kinds of containers best suited for carting someone’s internal organs away.

Greg jotted it all down in his notebook as quickly as he could. While most of his fellow officers might prefer to ignore the theories of a junkie, Greg had learned not to discount what Sherlock said. He was usually right and at least at this scene he wasn’t actually high.

When he wound down Greg looked up from his notebook. “What was her permutation?”

Sherlock’s lips thinned as though he didn’t want to answer the question. “She was an omega. Your killer either has an obsession with the ripper murders or with omegas in general. Either way, I’d expect another sooner rather than later if I were you.”

Jones winced visibly.

“Another?” Greg demanded weakly. He’d thought the same about the similarities to Jack the Ripper but jumping to the conclusion of a serial killer this soon seemed a bit premature.

“This was clearly directed against her as an omega rather than as a person,” Sherlock snapped. “The killer didn’t care who she was, just what she was. He killed her but all the violence was directed against that which made her an omega, not that which made her a person. Therefore, if this was against an omega rather than Cynthia herself it’s logical to conclude that whatever drove the killer to do this will drive him to do so again against another omega.”

Greg wished – he _really_ wished – that he didn’t see the logic of that.


	3. Chapter 3

Sixteen-year-old Cynthia Harrison had run away from her abusive family in Milton Keynes some two months before. Like most omegas on the streets she had turned up at walk-in clinics regularly for the hormone inhibitors which would decrease her natural scent – which would have nearly screamed fertile omega available for breeding otherwise — and, more importantly — would keep her from going into heat. She had no record, no known enemies, and – what was rather dangerous – no bondmate, protector or pack. Being a young omega it wasn’t safe to be without anyone to stand as protection against predatory alphas. 

Still, while the threat of rape was very real for a girl in her position, this was the first time Greg had ever seen one eviscerated.

The coroner confirmed that only her reproductive organs were missing and – like Sherlock had said – the killer had some decent medical knowledge and had likely used a scalpel for both slicing her throat and the removal of her organs. Decent medical knowledge did not, however, seem to translate into the perpetrator being a doctor in this case. Again, Sherlock’s deductions that the organ removal itself was too clumsy for an actual physician was born out in the autopsy. Not that Greg had expected any different. By this point he’d found taking Sherlock’s pronouncements as gospel from the start and not bothering to wait for expert confirmation before following up on those the leads the kid provided generally lead to closing cases faster.

This case, unfortunately, was clearly not going to be like that.

It was a nightmare with no leads in sight and every day that went by without any progress was one more day closer, Greg was sure of it, to another crime scene like the first. While it was too soon to start talking about serial killers here in the yard, Greg knew in his gut that, as usual, Sherlock was right. This hadn’t been a crime directed against Cynthia as a person, but as an omega.

The only good thing was that the press hadn’t yet caught hold of the case yet. So far it was just the death of another homeless kid. It barely made the farthest pages back in the local news section and wasn’t reported on at all outside of London.

He doubted very much that that state of affairs would keep after the next body was found.

 

* * *

 

The call came from Jones while Greg was getting ready to head to work one morning nearly two months after the murder of Cynthia Harrison.

“Sherlock was right,” he said flatly before rattling off the address of a condemned block of flats.

This time Sherlock was already there when Greg arrived. He was clearly jittery, in desperate need of a fix but not actually high.

He was scowling at the uniforms that had actually managed to keep him from entering the scene. Greg decided to keep an eye on that lot, they showed promise.

A particularly nasty argument seem to be under way between Sherlock and one of the new officers who had just transferred into his division barely a week before. Donovan, he thought her name was. She seemed to be holding her own against him, which said a hell of a lot about her. He’d seen officers with far more experience than her beaten down by Sherlock in less time than it took Greg to get close enough to make out what they were saying.

“If you think I’m gonna let some junkie contaminate a crime scene…”

“As if you haven’t already contaminated it,” Sherlock snapped back. “Your skills as a police officer are…”

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” Greg called over.

Sherlock turned scowling over at him. Greg hadn’t seen the kid in a couple of weeks and he looked worse than the last time. Thinner than ever, which meant he was little better than skin and bones, and Greg had to restrain himself from demanding to know when the kid had last eaten. It wasn’t his business, he reminded himself. Sherlock was useful. That was all. Still, it was getting harder these days to keep himself from trying to bundle Sherlock home with him to see him properly fed and clothed. And wouldn’t Ann just _love_ that.

“Know who the victim is?” Greg asked as he approached.

“I haven’t seen her yet,” Sherlock scoffed. “I know of several possibilities though based on the location.”

Greg nodded. He turned to Donovan and nodded toward Sherlock. “He’s with me.”

“Sir!” She was clearly scandalised by the idea but he just shrugged. She’d learn soon enough.

Sherlock smirked in victory as he swept under the crime scene tape with Greg. He saw Donavon — what was her first name again? Sofie? Sade? No. Sally. That was it. — take a deep breath as Sherlock passed, clearly still trying to figure out his permutation. Greg wished her luck with that. He’d known the kid for nearly eight months now and he still wasn’t sure. He wore a bewildering variety of maskers and inhibitors so that he smelled different every time Greg saw him. Tonight he smelled like what Greg had come to think of as his default scent, an odd combination of a muted version all three permutations. It should have been jarring and unpleasant and Greg knew some of his officers found it so. He wasn’t sure why he himself didn’t. Oddly, he preferred it when Sherlock smelled entirely ambiguous than when he wore a strong alpha masker, which he did at times.

What he actually _was_ Greg didn’t know. Although his personal theory was that he was one of those rare individuals with some kind of permutation ambiguity. It seemed likely that his obsession with covering his natural scent was that there was something wrong with it, something really off-putting. He was dominant enough that Greg wouldn’t be surprised if the kid had a bit of alpha in him. But if he was an alpha it would have been odd for him to cover it up. An ambiguity or some problem with the pheromones he put off would answer the question.

Donovan was clearly disturbed by the confusion in Sherlock’s scent and Greg heard her mutter “freak” under her breath as they walked away. It was said quietly enough that he decided that it probably wasn’t worth it to call her on it.

Jones was waiting for them with the body, along with one of the crime scene team who was already carefully documenting the scene.

It was every bit as bad as the first. If anything it was slightly worse. The victim lay in the middle of what had likely been the living room of a flat back when the building was still in use. The removed organs, instead of just being piled to the side like before, had been spread out in an arch around the body.

“He enjoyed himself more with this one,” Sherlock commented, walking carefully around the perimeter of the room. “He felt more secure here where he would have more easily heard anyone approaching. That combined with the experience of having got away with one murder already allowed him to relax and take his time, indulge himself in a bit of theatrics.”

“Did you know her?” It was Jones who asked.

Greg couldn’t help the surge of relief when Sherlock shook his head. “No, but she was a pro. That’s obvious. I know who would know who she is.”

It was not obvious, at least it wasn’t obvious to Greg, that she’d been a prostitute. However, in this neighbourhood it wouldn’t be surprising.

“Who works this area?” he asked Jones.

“I’ll find out,” the sergeant responded, heading out of the room with a look that said he was grateful to do so. Greg couldn’t blame him.

Pulling out his notebook, Greg wrote quickly as Sherlock began to talk. The kid bent down for a closer examination of a couple of the internal organs, commenting on the level of skill necessary to remove them in one piece.

“But you’re still sure this person wasn’t a doctor of some kind?” Greg asked.

“No,” Sherlock responded certainly. “You can see by the incisions here and here,” he said grabbing a pen from the pocket of the crime scene tech to point at a couple of spots on what Greg was fairly certain was the liver. The tech had stopped taking pictures and was watching Sherlock with a mixture of horror and fascination. “This is clearly an expedient way of getting the organ out of the body. However, it is most certainly not how a doctor would go about this as there would have been no way for the person to survive such a procedure. While the killer has an excellent knowledge of human anatomy and a good deal of cutting experience, it is _not_ the kind where the individual being cut is expected to survive which is the main purpose of a doctor’s incisions.”

“But the killer didn’t expect this particular person to survive,” Greg argued. “Isn’t it possible that they might have dissected the individual differently because of that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “If this had been done by a doctor, there would still be evidence of the standard methods of medical incisions. Those would have been drilled into them in the laboratory. They’d be second nature by the point they finished medical school. This person didn’t study human anatomy with an eye to medicine. They studied it in order to best understand how to remove everything as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

Greg couldn’t help but make a face, more than a little disgusted by the thought. But he wasn’t going to argue.

Just then Jones returned with a uniform who took one look at the scene and had to rush back out to be sick.

He returned only a few moments later, looking sheepish.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, clearly embarrassed. 

Greg shook his head and was about to tell the man not to worry about it but Sherlock spoke before he could reassure the officer.

“Ah, Constable Fitzhugh, good.”

“Sherlock,” Fitzhugh said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Then he paused, looking confused. “What are you doing on a crime scene?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but Greg jumped in before Sherlock could say anything.

“Constable… Fitzhugh, was it?” So, they weren’t far from where Sherlock usually lived then, Greg thought, filing that bit of information away. He was not in the least surprised either by the fact that the officers who routinely worked this area knew who Sherlock was or that the man was less than thrilled to see him.

The officer nodded, turning his attention to Greg. “Yes sir.”

“You work this area. Do you have any idea who our victim may be?”

Fitzhugh was clearly not happy to have to take a closer look at the body but he stepped forward anyway, looking carefully at the woman’s face. Then his eyes widened in shock as his already pale face seemed to pale further.

“Felicity.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Any last name?” Greg asked, scribbling in his notebook. Fitzhugh seemed to shake himself out of the shocked horror.

“Sorry, I… Pierson. It was Pierson.” The officer took a deep breathing. “She’s been picked up for solicitation and possession a few times. Felicity isn’t her real name, but it’s what she goes by. I’ll call in and have her files sent over to you.” The constable looked back over at the body, pity and grief showing clearly on his face now. “She… she had a mouth on her, that one,” he said sadly. “A quick wit too when she wasn’t strung out. Exchanged good natured insults with her more than once. She always took her arrests philosophically. She knew the score and wasn’t much bothered when she had to spend a night in a cell. She wasn’t… wasn’t a bad sort.”

Greg understood what the officer was saying. Sometime you got to know the regulars and yes, some of them were right bastards who you wanted to see locked away. But others, you got to like in spite of yourself. He forced himself not to glance at Sherlock. Not for the first time, he reflected uncomfortably on what he would feel if he were called to a scene to find the kid dead. He was a homeless junkie after all. Either by overdose or murder, he was not likely to live very long. Greg pushed the thought away as unprofitable.

“What was her drug of choice?” Greg asked. Sherlock had continued poking about at the internal organs spread around the body with the borrowed pen during the conversation. He hadn’t paid much attention to Fitzhugh except to smirk with clear self-satisfaction when Fitzhugh confirmed his deduction that the victim had been a prostitute.

At Greg’s question, however, he looked up sharply. “It would have been heroin obviously, don’t be obtuse Detective Inspector.”

Fitzhugh seemed to pull himself together and turned back to Greg. “It was heroin,” he confirmed, choosing simply to ignore Sherlock. “I’ll call my sergeant and get those files sent over to you.”

Greg nodded. “Thank you constable.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nod here goes out to the incomparable Wordstrings. I so adored her version of DI Bradstreet in her AMAZING '[All The Best and Brightest Creatures](http://archiveofourown.org/works/582059/chapters/1045212)' that I've pretty much stolen her wholesale.

Constable Fitzhugh had been as good as his word. By the time Greg finally got back to the yard the files on his newest victim were there waiting for him. Felicity’s real name had been Jemma Pierson. Her mug shots showed a woman who had been rather pretty once but at 28 was starting to show the ravages of the life she led. Her hair had been badly bleached from her natural brown to a very unnatural blonde and she wore far too much makeup to cover the shadows under her eyes and the lines that had already begun to dig themselves into her face.

Nonetheless, there was something about the slight smile she had, even when going through the procedure of arrest that suggested someone who had retained her sense of humour despite it all. Her record was long but fairly monotonous: solicitation, possession, more solicitation, more possession. No violence or anything like it. Jemma Pierson had been a danger to no one but herself. Even then, the reports of arresting officers and prison guards all gave the picture of a clever woman with a sharp, sarcastic sense of humour. The kind of person you couldn’t help but like even when you were arresting her, exactly as Fitzhugh had described.

Like Cynthia before her, Felicity had had no pack. She’d used the standard suppressants to repress her heats and used her omega status to her advantage in her profession. She’d sometimes been homeless and sometimes had enough for a flop house or a room at a pay by the week hostel. There was no family. The only difference here was that Felicity seemed to have a great many friends and regular clients. She’d been arrested once in the process of buying heroin from one of her suppliers. The man had been taking in along with her and had spoken of her with obvious fondness.

As Greg pinned up her mug shot on the white board in the conference room he’d commandeered for this investigation, he felt unaccountably depressed by it all. It wasn’t that he was usually unaffected by the murders he investigated. He was always affected. But there was something about the tragedy of Felicity’s entire life, ending as it did at the hands of someone who clearly didn't even see her as a person, that got to him. She smiled slightly out of her picture now, unaware of the gruesome fate in store for her. A fate horribly illustrated by the crime scene pictures displayed next to her. On other side of the board, 16 year old Cynthia smiled shyly out of her own picture, next to the images of a ravaged body and a pile of internal organs.

He had to shake it off though. He didn’t have time for this.

Jones sat at the table, going through the list of Felicity’s known contacts just in case. Farther down the table another senior officer plugged away on a laptop, looking again for any like crimes. Greg had done such a search when they’d found Cynthia’s body and he doubted there’d be anything to find this time. But procedure was procedure.

A quick breath, not quite a gasp, caught his attention and he looked toward the door. Donovan stood there. As the newest member of Greg’s team it had been her Jones had sent to fetch coffee for them all. She’d left before Greg had put up the pictures and as she’d been canvasing the neighbourhood this morning and hadn’t been a member of the team two months before, she’d never seen just what had been done to these two women.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he asked with sympathy.

Donovan straightened up, clearing her face of the shock of the moment before. Coming forward she quickly handed the other two officers their coffee before coming over to Greg and handing him his. He accepted the cup gratefully. Yard coffee was horrible stuff, but he needed the boost too badly to forgo it at this point.

Greg nodded toward the board. “What do you think?”

He hadn’t really got the chance to get the measure of his newest officer yet. Though he appreciated her earlier display of backbone in the face of Sherlock’s petulant wrath.

She folded her arms over her chest, studying the pictures. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration, the earlier horror gone.

“They’re both omegas, right?” she asked.

“Yep,” Greg answered, pleased that she now seemed entirely focused on the problem of the investigation. She’d felt the deaths when she’d come in, that was obvious. Something he wanted from any of his officers. But she was clearly able to put that aside to do the job. Another thing he expected from those under his command.

“So what’s his angle then?” She seemed to be speaking to herself as much as to Greg. “Is he just completely obsessed with omegas in general or has he got a thing for the ripper or both?”

Greg nodded, pleased. “I’ve been wondering the same myself. In this case, I think it’s more the first than the second. Our second vic was a known prostitute, sure, but we have no evidence that she’d been working last night.”

“Right,” Donovan nodded. “And based on where she was killed that kind of seems unlikely. That’s not the kind of place you’d take a john. What about the first? I haven’t had a chance to look at the file yet. Was she a pro?”

“Not really,” Greg answered. He moved over to the table and pushed Cynthia’s file toward Donovan who had followed him. “She’d only been on the streets for about two months and while we have information that she’d tricked a couple of times, she wasn’t what anyone would call a professional.”

“Just a runaway kid,” Donovan said, flipping quickly through the file. “And she sure wouldn’t have been tricking where she was found any more than the first second one would have. All the ripper murders were done while the women were working the streets, crimes of opportunity. Not here. Think they were selected beforehand, stalked before they were killed?” she asked.

“It seems the most likely scenario,” Greg confirmed.

Greg exchanged a look with Jones who nodded slightly in approval. This new officer was definitely going to be an asset to the team.

 

* * *

 

It was almost two weeks later when Jones caught Greg on his way back up to his office from questioning a suspect in a standard burglary gone wrong.

“Sherlock’s been arrested at one of Bradstreet’s crime scenes. He was booked about ten minutes ago.”

Greg rolled his eyes. Still, he’d wanted to talk to the kid about what he may or may not have heard regarding what the papers were already calling the Millennial Ripper. Greg’s team had been doing their best but the prostitutes, homeless and junkies who had been those most likely to know anything in this case weren’t generally eager to talk to the cops. Sherlock, as one of their own, was far more likely to get the information they needed. Greg hadn’t seen him since Felicity’s crime scene though and so hadn’t had a chance to ask him. It was damn inconvenient not to be able to contact Sherlock himself.

If he got down to the cells quickly enough he could talk to him before whoever it was who always got him out arrived.

He nodded his thanks to Jones and headed down.

Sherlock sat on the bench at the back of one of the holding cells. He’d drawn in his knees up to his chest and was staring unhappily at nothing.

“What did you do to Bradstreet?” Greg asked. If anything, Greg had begun to think that the other DI might be considering making use of Sherlock as Greg himself had. She’d come by only a couple of weeks ago to ask what kind of help the kid was and had seemed genuinely impressed by what Greg had shared.

Sherlock shrugged, not looking up. “She objected to the fact that I was high and said she’d talk to me when I “sobered up”. As if my deductions would be any more valid an hour from now than they were at the scene.”

Greg leaned against the bars of the cell, watching the kid. Clearly he was coming down from the high, staring into space as though he were somewhere between being asleep and awake without the manic energy he’d probably had earlier.

“I’d have kicked you off my crime scene if you’d turned up high too,” he said. “We might not be able to stop you from using but we sure as hell aren’t going to have it shoved in our faces either.”

Sherlock gave him a sour look.

Before Greg could say any more an officer showed up.

“Looks like you’re getting out,” he told Sherlock. “Someone’s upstairs finishing up the paperwork as we speak.”

Greg moved away from the cell as the officer unlocked it.

“That was fast. Who’s doing the paperwork?” Greg asked, realising he might finally find out just who it was who kept getting Sherlock out of jail like this.

The officer shrugged, clearly not particularly interested. “I was just sent down to get him.”

Greg nodded and followed them as the officer lead an unusually subdued Sherlock out of lock up.

At the duty sergeant’s desk a young woman waited in a crisply fashionable suit. She looked cool and a collected and nothing at all like Sherlock.

Sherlock did not seem either surprised or pleased to see her.

Greg stepped forward.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

She eyed him for a moment before nodding to him. “Detective Inspector, my name is Antonia. I’m here to make sure the paperwork to release... Sherlock goes through.

Like hell your name is Antonia, Greg thought. Also, there had been a slight pause before she’d said Sherlock’s name as though she’d been about to call him something else first and then thought better of it.

He snatched paper on the desk beside the desk sergeant and looked quickly through it. It was signed by the Detective Chief Superintendent.

Who the hell had the power to do that? Why would the super care about some junkie Bradstreet had picked up?

Just as he was wondering, Bradstreet stormed into the room, clearly furious. “What the hell is going on here?”

A tall woman with short blonde hair and a no nonsense attitude Jane Bradstreet was the DI Greg most enjoyed working with of all their colleagues. She was straightforward, intelligent and had a wicked sense of humour. It was unusual for a beta to rise as high as she had at so young an age and she’d got there by solid police work and an impressive arrest rate.

Greg handed her the forms releasing Sherlock from custody and she swore.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked “Antonia”. She received the exact same answer as Greg had. Word for word, in fact.

Antonia then turned to Sherlock who had been unaccountably silent throughout the exchange staring at the woman with a petulant expression. He looked pale and about to drop. The cocaine was well and truly out of his system now and the crash had to be hitting the kid hard.

“Well you sure as hell aren’t making off with him before I…” Bradstreet began.

Antonia pretended not to hear her. She spoke to Sherlock for the first time. “If you’ll come with me, there’s a car waiting.”

Sherlock seemed to pull himself with difficulty out of the funk he was falling into.

“I’m not going anywhere with _you_ ,” he snapped with something like his usual acerbity.

“He’s not going anywhere with anyone until I have a chance to talk to him,” Bradstreet said marching over to stand between Antonia and Sherlock. 

She was taller than Antonia and, to Greg’s eye, far more attractive. Antonia’s more ripe curves were far from unappealing but there was something about the smaller woman that put him off. She was too poised, too certain of herself to the point of smugness. She was far too certain of herself when faced with an angry DI. Which meant that whoever was behind her has some serious clout. As if the super’s signature on the order to release Sherlock wasn’t enough sign of that already.

Who the hell had that kind of power and influence? And when had he wondered that exact same thing not that long ago? And he had wondered about it. He was sure of that. Something else had happened that involved someone with _a lot_ of power…

Then he remembered.

“Do you work for Holmes?” he demanded from Antonia, interrupting Bradstreet who had been reading the other woman the riot act. Bradstreet was not usually so volatile and he wondered what had put her in such a temper. It wasn’t just this. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock’s head snap up. There was only a momentary look of surprise on Antonia’s face. There and gone quickly as she schooled her features back to impassivity. Still, it had been there. And that explained how she’d known who he was. It was her boss who’d been accessing his records. He tried not to grind his teeth.

Greg stepped forward. “I’d like you to tell Holmes that I don’t appreciate someone going behind my back. If Holmes wants to know about me…” he paused, uncertain whether Holmes was male or female and decided to play the probabilities. “He can come and bloody well ask me himself.”

Antonina eyed him coolly for a moment before nodding. “I will pass the message along Detective Inspector.” 

She looked back to Sherlock who just snorted. 

She gave them all a cool nod before turning and leaving.

“What the hell was that about?” Bradstreet demanded.

“We’ll talk in my office,” Greg said. “Sherlock, you’re coming too.”

For once in his life Sherlock didn’t argue.

Once in Greg’s office Sherlock dropped into one of the visitor’s chairs watching Greg with a look of serious trepidation, like he was suddenly unsure of him. Why, though, Greg couldn’t imagine.

Bradstreet shut the door behind her and turned to eye Greg. “Alright,” she said taking a deep breath before leaning against the wall. “Who’s Holmes and what the hell is going on here?”

Greg shook his head. “I have no idea. All I do know is that someone accessed all my records not long ago. And I mean all of them. Records, case history, officer evaluations… everything. All DCI Chamberlain could get was the name Holmes, but when he tried to find out who that was he couldn’t seem to get anywhere. It’s a name that clearly commands obedience but just as clearly shuts everyone’s mouths damn fast. When I was wondering who’d have the pull to get the super to sign off on something like this…” Greg shrugged. “It was a gamble but it paid off.”

They both turned to look at Sherlock who had slumped down in the chair. The tension of a moment before was gone as though Greg’s explanation had relieved him.

“Sherlock?” Bradstreet asked.

Sherlock said nothing for a long time, staring at the carpet at his feet.

“He works for the government,” Sherlock said at last. The two Detective Inspectors waited but nothing more was forthcoming.

“I think we got that much,” Bradstreet said, taking the seat next to Sherlock’s. “What does he have to do with you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He... I’m a genius. He wants me to work for him.”

That, Greg was sure, was less than half the story. Not that someone within the government having their eye on Sherlock would be a shocking idea, but this was far more than just a recruitment attempt.

Sherlock sat up slightly and looked at them both. “That’s all I’m saying. He’s… he has power. He’s dangerous. You don’t want anything to do with him.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that,” Greg said. “He’s been in my business ever since I started working with you.”

Bradstreet groaned. “I guess that’s something for me to look forward to. Joy.”

Sherlock seemed to take a moment to process what she’d said. He blinked at her before pulling himself together with clear effort. The smirk he gave Bradstreet didn’t have a half of its normal smugness.

“It’s taken you long enough to…”

Bradstreet cut him off. “I went through what you gave me at the scene and what I could look into of it so far checks out.” She pulled a PDA out of her pocket. Unlike Greg, who preferred his old-fashion notebook, Bradstreet was a gadget freak. “What else?” She gave Greg an apologetic look. “Sorry but I want to get what I can before he’s totally useless.”

Greg nodded agreeably waving at her to continue while Sherlock sputtered that he was _never_ useless.

It took only another ten minutes for Bradstreet to get what she needed from Sherlock. It was an odd robbery, someone had managed to get into a jewellery store and make off with a lot of jewellery in the middle of the day with no one seeing anything. Just the kind of thing that would catch Sherlock’s interest.

When she was done she looked to Greg again. “So, what should I expect from this government agent?” she asked. 

Greg shrugged. “All I know is what I’ve already said. He got his hands on all my records, and I mean _all_ of them. Even the stuff that no one outside of the yard is supposed to have access to. He went over Chamberlain’s head to do it and he’s pissed as hell about it. That’s all I know.”

Bradstreet sighed. “This is going to be fun.” She turned back to Sherlock. “If you ever turn up at one of my crime scenes high again I’ll ban you from it. And don’t think I can’t. But as long as you’re sober, we can see how this goes. Do me a favour though. When you do show up, just tell the uniforms holding the scene who you are and to have them tell me that you are there. No more of this sneaking onto the scene business. If I want to keep chain of evidence I have to know who was where on scene at all times. It’s bad enough I’m letting you on. If it gets out in court that there was unauthorised personnel on scene _without_ us knowing exactly where they were and what they were doing at all times then any and all evidence gathered at that scene could be called into question. And I’m bloody well not going to see some murderer go free because you’re arsing about. Got it?”

It was more or less the same agreement Greg had been trying to work out with the kid. Although, in his case he’d found waiting to see which uniforms caught him trying to sneak on and which hadn’t was informative.

Sherlock looked petulant, but finally nodded before going back to staring at the carpet, glassy eyed.

The two Detective Inspectors eyed him with concern. They both knew the kid well enough to know that this was very, very wrong.

“He always like this when he’s coming down?” Bradstreet asked, getting up to leave.

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never actually watched him come down before.”

“I do so _love_ being talked about as though I’m either deaf or absent,” Sherlock snapped, a bit of his usual self showing through.

Bradstreet turned toward the door, not entirely able to hide the amused smile. “I’ll see you later, Greg,” she said. “And you Sherlock.”

Greg gave her a nod.

She shut the door behind her when she left and for a while Sherlock and Greg sat in silence.

Greg turned in his chair to look out the window behind him. Evening was falling quickly and the wind had clearly picked up. There had been some flurries during the day but it was snowing in earnest now. He made a face. They were supposed to get as much as two maybe even three inches by morning and the temperature was going to plummet. By now the homeless shelters around the city would already be filled to capacity and it was going to be _cold_ out there with the wind on top of freezing temperatures.

He sighed. Ann was going to kill him.

“Come on,” he said, getting up. Sherlock looked up clearly wary.

“Where?” he demanded.

“Look,” Greg said pulling on his coat. “It’s going to be bloody cold out there with heavy wind and snow. There’s no chance in hell at getting a place in one of the shelters this late in the day and you’re coming down from one hell of a high. If you think I’m going to let you go off in this to freeze to death in some alley somewhere you’re out of your mind.”

“I don’t need your charity,” the kid snapped.

“Good,” Greg snapped right back. “Because you’re not getting it. I need you for this damn serial killer case. And if having you as a resource for it means putting you up for the night so you don’t freeze then so be it.”

Sherlock didn’t get up, just eyeing the DI and Greg wondered what he was seeing. It was often hard to tell with Sherlock just how much he could see. Sometimes it felt like he could read your thoughts but there were other times when he simply failed to understand the strangest things. More than once when Greg had brought up the fact that he knew of good rehab centres Sherlock had snapped back that either he wasn’t going to owe Greg any favours or that he could solve Greg’s cases perfectly well as he was. As though the only reason Greg would want to help him was to have Sherlock owe him or to protect Greg’s access to Sherlock’s deductions. For all his brilliance he seemed honestly incapable of realising that Greg was worried about him.

He liked the kid, God help him. Lord knew what that said about him, but he did. He didn’t want to see him dead either by freezing to death or overdosing and he sure as hell didn’t want to see Sherlock destroy exactly the things that made him so incredible.

“Also, I need to pick your brain about the case and I’m too hungry to sit about here while the snow gets deeper and my dinner gets colder. The roads are going to be bad enough now. I don’t want to know what they’re going to be like in an hour or two.”

This seemed to satisfy Sherlock. As long as the primary motivation for things was entirely selfish, Sherlock was far more comfortable with it than when there was anything altruistic involved. It made Greg wonder about his background. What kind of family had the kid come from that he couldn’t see honest concern when it was right in front of him?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on supplemental casting for this story. Here they all are up to this point in the story:
> 
> Detective Sergeant Anthony Jones................. [Brendan Gleeson](https://31.media.tumblr.com/4238d788e4969479e2bbbac13af5dba5/tumblr_nfdny82fj91td3ydxo3_400.png)  
> Detective Inspector Jane Bradstreet............... [Ashley Scott](https://31.media.tumblr.com/a904d702a086f89939903143e119f29c/tumblr_nfdny82fj91td3ydxo2_500.png)  
> Mrs. Ann Lestrade......................................... [Anna Maxwell Martin](https://38.media.tumblr.com/69a302b0229180b58b7b8d9413e9589f/tumblr_nfdny82fj91td3ydxo1_400.png)  
> Cynthia Harrison........................................... [Haley Pullos](https://33.media.tumblr.com/23eab51aa4a25b285b550ce6d33cae72/tumblr_nfdny82fj91td3ydxo4_400.png)  
> Felicity Pierson.............................................. [Kathryn Morris](https://33.media.tumblr.com/6fb201658f6ccece5c9d0118b36dd217/tumblr_nfdny82fj91td3ydxo5_400.png)
> 
> Please visit me on [tumblr](http://cleocalliope.tumblr.com/) for updates, previews and updated cast listings.

The roads where already bloody awful. The snow wasn’t deep yet but the wind and the plummeting temperatures on top of the rain they’d got earlier in the day meant that everything was already icing over. Put that together with the usual reaction of Londoners to snow and it was a madhouse out there. Greg passed at three accidents on his way out of the city centre. Luckily there were already officers on scene at each so he didn’t have to stop.

Sherlock sat silently in the seat beside him, eyes closed. Greg wasn’t sure if he was asleep or not. Either way he was so unlike himself like this that Greg debated taking him to A&E.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock growled after a while.

“What?” Greg asked, started after the long silence.

“I said I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated. “And besides the A&E would be packed at this point what with all the accidents and the mess.”

Greg just shook his head. He didn’t want to know how Sherlock had deduced exactly what Greg was thinking with his eyes closed. Still, it was good to know that he was still capable of deducing.

It took Greg nearly twice as long as it usually did to get home and it was only once they were actually there that he realised he’d entirely neglected to do one important thing. He hadn’t called Ann to tell her they’d be having a guest. He groaned inwardly. Oh, *this* was going to be fun.

Sherlock just smirked at him as they climbed out of the car as though he knew exactly what Greg was thinking. He probably did.

Greg lived in a comfortable row house far enough out of the city centre to be affordable but close enough in that the drive into work wasn’t too bad. The neighbourhood was actually better than anything he and Ann should have been able to afford. Luckily, Ann was a real estate agent and knew exactly how to go about finding what was out there and snatching it up before it got on the market. This particular house was never even officially listed before they bought it and they’d got it for far bellow its value.

It was a comfortable two story affair and Greg already felt the tension from the drive across town in the ice and snow begin draining from him as he looked at the warm glow of the lights behind the heavy velvet curtains Ann had inherited from her grandmother. He trudged up the walkway with Sherlock behind him and unlocked the door. It was warm inside and he could smell garlic and oregano wafting back from the kitchen along with the strains of classical music, something melancholy and sweet played by strings.

After the cold and dark outside it was like another world. A far better and more comfortable one. A gift.

Sherlock paused just inside the door. “Vaughn Williams,” he said. “Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis.” He cocked his head to one side listening. “Most likely the performance conducted by Andrew Davis.”

Greg glanced questioningly at him as he unwound his scarf and hung it up with his coat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The music,” he said.

Greg just shrugged. He knew nothing whatsoever about classical music. That was Ann’s thing. Although since marrying her he’d come to appreciate it more and more. He didn’t know who the composers where or what the styles were. All he knew was that in the three months since the wedding it had begun to sound like home to him.

Now that they were actually there, another problem with having Sherlock here presented itself to him. The kid didn’t exactly smell, as such, but he was clearly less than perfectly clean, his hair hanging into his eyes in slightly greasy clumps. He was far cleaner than you average homeless kid. Still, Ann, bless her, was more than a little OCD.

“Look,” Greg said. “Why don’t you go upstairs? The first door at the top is the bathroom. Get a shower and drop your clothes outside the door. I’ll find something for you to wear while we wash them.”

Sherlock just eyed him again, as though trying to figure him out before glancing around the entry way.

“If you wife is that fastidious…” he began, but Greg cut him off.

“It won’t do you any harm to have a shower and some clean clothes.”

When the kid still just stood there Greg growled, “Sherlock,” in a warning tone. It wasn’t a full alpha tone, he wouldn’t have dared try to Command Sherlock to do anything. But then Greg didn’t particularly like Commanding anyone if he didn’t absolutely have to.

Command was something only an alpha could do. It was a combination of a particular growl with a particular set of pheromones that could compel others to do as they were told or at the very least stop what they were doing long enough to listen. It caused a knee jerk reaction to obey, the strength of that reaction being dependent upon the dominance of the alpha in question, the dominance of the person being Commanded and the relationship between the two. For the most part that knee jerk was all you got but that was more than enough in most cases.

In Greg case, his level of dominance meant that he could drop most betas or omegas to their knees with a single Command if it was given strongly enough. If he really tried he probably have forced a good few alphas to their knees as well, though the strength that would take meant that it wasn’t something he ever wanted to put to the test. He almost never tried to actually make anyone kneel in submission, though. When he did use Command he could get anyone — omega, beta or alpha — to pause, to stop whatever it was they were doing if only for a moment. When he was chasing a suspect or trying to stop a situation from spiralling out of control, it was an extremely useful ability. That was, however, all he used it for. Greg wasn’t really comfortable with Command, he never had been. He wanted to earn the respect of those around him, not demand it. And he’d found that the fact that he *didn’t* demand it when he demonstrably could, the fact that he set about earning it, generally won him that respect a great deal faster. And when it was given that respect was, it seemed to him, more genuine than the deference with which most alphas of his level of dominance were treated.

Greg had never even considered trying to Commanded Sherlock. He knew, instinctively, that to do so would ruin whatever rapport the two of them had.

Still, when he spoke this time there was an edge of the Command growl even if there were none of the pheromones involved.

To his surprise Sherlock turned and headed up the stairs without further protest and Greg was a little taken aback. He would have expected another pithy comment or at least a look of contempt before Sherlock obeyed. He decided that it was probably because the kid was crashing hard.

Besides, at the moment he wasn’t about to look any gift-horse in the mouth.

Heading to the back of the house he found Ann pulling garlic bread out of the oven while a pot of spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove.

Greg had always felt that what Ann lacked in curvaceousness she made up for with the well-crafted quality of the curves she did have. At 5’6” she was a good five inches shorter than Greg and he’d always rather liked that as well, liked how she fitted against him. Marriage was still new enough that he often found himself astonished to come home to find he had a wife. It was a marvel to him and he couldn't stop thinking about how damn lucky he was to have this. This evening, dressed in a green sweater and jeans, her red-gold hair pulled back in a ponytail, just the sight of her was enough to take away nearly all that still remained of the stress of the day. 

She caught sight of Greg and smiled widely.

“There you are,” she said. “It looks like it’s getting nasty out there. I was just about to start worrying. How bad are the roads?”

Greg groaned exaggeratedly.

“That bad?”

She put the tray with the garlic bread on the counter and dropped the oven mitt beside it before coming over to slip her arms around Greg’s waist.

He sighed, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. She used strawberry scented shampoo and body wash and she smelled of both now with a hint of oregano. She smelled warm and clean and sweet. God, he loved her. He’d taken some flack for marrying a beta instead of holding out for an omega as a "true alpha" apparently would have. As far as he was concerned they were all out of their minds and Greg wouldn’t trade Ann for a hundred omegas.

At that moment the shower turned on upstairs and she pulled back a little and looked up at the ceiling. “What…?” she began.

“Um, yeah,” Greg said. “I’m so sorry, love, but with everything else I forgot to call you. I have a friend who I kind of said could sleep here tonight.”

Ann sighed. “I really wish you had called.” She glanced over at the stove. “I’m not sure I’ll have enough to feed three of us, not with the way you eat.” She hadn’t pulled away from Greg, though, and that was a good sign.

“I know,” Greg said, rubbing a hand up and down her spine in an unconscious gesture. “And I’m sorry but it was all kind of last minute because of the storm and what with worrying about the roads and getting home… I just didn’t think.”

“I suppose I can see that.” She did pull away then, leaning up to give him a quick kiss before heading back over to check the sauce. “Who is it?”

This was the difficult part.

“Well… You remember I was telling you about that kid who’s been helping me out on some of my cases?”

Ann stopped stirring the spaghetti sauce and gave Greg a narrow eyed look. “Sherlock,” she said flatly.

Greg nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets and fighting the urge to fidget.

“Gregory Lestrade, are you saying that you brought a junkie into my house?” she demanded.

Greg wondered why it was always "their house" when she invited friends over for dinner and then suddenly her house when Greg did something in it she didn’t like.

“Love,” Greg said. “It’s seven below out there. God only knows what the wind chill is by now and it’s only going to get colder. The news on the radio on the way home said that we might get as much as three inches of show by morning. He was helping Bradstreet — I've mentioned Bradstreet, right?" He barely waited for the nod. "Anyway, he was helping her with a case this afternoon. By the time they were done there was no way he’d have been able to get into any of the shelters for the night. What was I supposed to do? Kick him out into the snow on a night like this?”

Ann closed her eyes, clearly getting her temper under control.

“It’s not that I don’t understand wanting to help him," she said reasonably. "It really isn't. Obviously I wouldn’t expect you to send him out to sleep on the streets in this.” She opened her eyes again and pinned Greg with that piercing look she sometimes had. “And I know he's helped you a great deal. But the kid is still a homeless drug addict. How do we know he isn’t going to make off with everything that he can carry while we’re asleep?”

Greg shook his head. “He wouldn’t do that.” He held up a hand when Ann opened her moth to protest this statement. “Trust me. I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t do that to us. Do you really think I’d bring anyone I believed would be a danger to us in any way into my territory? Into our *home*?”

All alphas were, by their nature, territorial. They protected what was theirs fiercely. Though Greg generally tried to live by reason rather than instinct, one area where he had no choice about allowing instinct its way was in the matter of territory. In the modern world, territory was a varying concept and could change depending on situation. An alpha’s territory could be no more than a single room, as it had been when Greg was at university, or it could encompass entire neighbourhoods or even villages if the alpha was strong enough and the others in the area were willing to submit to his or her protection. Whatever the size or nature of his or her territory, though, an alpha would defend it without hesitation or question. It wasn’t something that could be ignored. Territory was a visceral concept, something felt deep inside and the need to defend it and those within it was as basic as breathing.

The size of a territory often depended on the dominance of the alpha. As there were no other alphas close, besides a boy of six two doors down who obviously had yet to present, Greg’s personal territory, the area that was his to defend, encompassed not only his and Ann’s house but also the homes of their neighbours on either side and the two houses beyond their immediate neighbour to the right.

He had no right to enter other people’s homes without good reason, as that was their private space. He could and would only do so if he believed there was an immediate danger of some kind. However, he kept an eye on the area, made sure that things were as they should be.

It wasn’t that he expected to know everyone who entered. They lived in a city, there were always going to be people who pass through that he didn’t know. However he did need to know everyone who lived there and was there on a regular basis. It was simply the way society worked. The ever shifting loyalties and hierarchies that came with pack and individual territories was something everyone had to be aware of as they moved through their lives. All delivery people had to know who controlled the various territories on their routes and make sure they made themselves known to them. Greg could identify their mail carrier by scent, knew exactly when the milk was delivered and by whom. The later was particularly important and he had to be warned if someone else was going to be delivering the milk. There was no end of damage that could be done to food and drink and if someone was going to be touching the food of the houses in his territory that had milk delivered, they were bloody well going to be someone Greg could identify the scent of. He knew the friends who visited often and when the nephew of the elderly widow next door had come for a week’s visit, he’d come over the day he arrived to introduce himself and make sure Greg knew he was supposed to be there. When a contractor was hired the month before to do some work three doors down, he had come by the evening before work began to make sure Greg knew who he was and what he was doing in his territory.

Greg’s pack, since it only consisted at the moment of Ann and one of his junior officers at the yard, didn’t have any territory beyond Greg’s personal territory. Although, technically the flat where his officer lived would be considered part of Greg's pack territory. However, when the young man had signed the paper work that made him Greg’s, Greg had gone over to the block of flats and met the alpha whose territory it was. Just so they knew who they each were and that they were, in a sense, sharing that particular flat. It wasn’t an uncommon thing in the modern world so it was easy enough to handle. Besides, the officer was Greg’s on paper only. They were pack by mutual agreement, nothing more.

After another moment Ann nodded, relaxing slightly. As with any alpha, Greg wouldn’t allow just anyone into his personal territory. And he was even more careful about who would sleep under the same roof as he wife. He rarely acted the part of the dominant alpha, mostly because he didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else. But he was who and what he was and that couldn't be put aside. If he’d chosen to bring Sherlock into his territory, and into his home, he trusted him enough not to harm anyone or anything that was his while he was there.

“I still don’t like it,” she said turning back to the stove. 

The tone told Greg that there wouldn’t be any more trouble on that point though and he headed into the laundry room to fetch something for Sherlock to wear while they washed his own cloths.

When he got upstairs the shower was just turning off and he knocked on the bathroom door. 

“There’s a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt out here for you,” he said, before heading into his own room to *finally* change out of his damn suit.

 

* * *

 

When Greg got back downstairs, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table watching Ann while she finished cooking the pasta. She was, in turn, watching him out of the corner of her eye. The atmosphere was less than warm.

The t-shirt Greg had given the kid hung on him like a tent. Greg was much larger across the shoulders as well as being of a more healthy weight than Sherlock, who was little more than skin and bones. The kid’s greater height seemed to be entirely in his legs and the sweats didn’t quite cover his bony ankles. Ann had clearly thought farther ahead than Greg and supplied Sherlock with a pair of Greg’s socks. The socks only barely reached to where the sweats ended. The effect was incongruous and kind of cute. Sherlock always seemed so put together, remarkably so for someone living on the streets. So to see him in clothes that fit this badly was funny. As if he were finally seeing the kid without his armour. What was odd was that it was also strangely comfortable.

Still, it was… unsettling in a way to see Sherlock sitting in his kitchen. Unsettling, but somehow, oddly satisfying. It was snowing even harder now, the world white beyond the windows of his cosy little home. Ann had turned down the music to a mere mummer of sound in the background, the sound of the washing machine running in the other room adding a domestic counterpoint to whatever was playing.

Greg felt oddly content as he sat down to dinner with Ann and Sherlock. It should have bothered him to have Sherlock here. Sherlock was, as Ann had reminded him, a homeless junkie. Just some kid Greg had come across and couldn't, now, seem to get rid of.

The really strange thing about it, though, was that it wasn't until he was passing the vegetables to the kid that he realised he hadn’t even stopped to think about it. He’d looked at the weather, realised the shelters would be full and decided then and there to take Sherlock home with him. He hadn’t even stopped to consider it. The alpha instincts that governed territorial issues hadn’t been bothered in the least by the idea of Sherlock under his roof for the night. In fact, he felt deeply pleased with the fact.

Why this should be the case was somewhat baffling and Greg decided that he didn’t want to analyse that feeling too closely.

There were rules at the Lestrade house as there were in any. One of them was that business of any kind was not to be discussed at the dinner table. Greg and Ann talked about things that happened at work but both of them wanted to be able to put the jobs themselves aside while they ate.

Ann’s attempts to get Sherlock to talk about himself did not bear fruit. More than once Greg saw the kid open his mouth to give some kind of sharp comeback but each time Greg gave him a look that made him bite back the retort. The fact that this was working, that Sherlock was actually allowing Greg to stop him from saying whatever the hell he wanted to say was… deeply strange. Greg had had no idea that he could influence Sherlock in anyway and he couldn’t claim to understand what was happening. It was possible, of course, that it was because of where they were. It was hardwired into everyone that you respected an alpha’s personal territory. But the instincts that guided most people’s behaviour generally seemed absent from Sherlock and Greg found it hard to believe that just being in Greg’s home would alter anything much.

Again, though, this was not a gift horse he intended to look in the mouth. As conversation seemed to lag, Greg decided to play a little game.

“Sherlock,” he said. The kid looked up from where he’d been picking at his food more than actually eating it. “Did you get a look at the houses on either side of us when we got here?”

Sherlock eyed him warily. “Of course,” he answered.

Greg grinned, turning to Ann. “I haven’t told him a thing about our neighbours, ever.” 

“Okay,” Ann said, clearly perplexed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You want me to deduce them? It’s not parlour trick.”

Greg just kept smiling as he leaned back in his seat. “Well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Sherlock sighed as though put upon but Greg saw his eyes light with both the challenge and the chance to show off. The kid could never back down from the opportunity to do either.

Ann sipped at her wine, looking mildly interested.

“This is that thing you do at crime scenes?” she asked. “Where you know everything just by looking?”

“I simply observe and deduce from those observations. It's not hard but no one ever pays *attention*." The all too common complaint lacked a certain level of its heat though as his mind was clearly already on the challenge. He sat back then and closed his eyes, pressing his hands together beneath his chin, almost as if in prayer.

"The house on the left is that of an elderly widow. She has lived there for some time. More than ten years but less than twenty. Fourteen I’d say. She's lived there since before her husband… No, from before her *mate* died. However, it is not where they raised their children. Nor was it a retirement home. They moved into it when he became ill to be close to family. Not her family, though. Children of his, from a previous marriage before he mated with her. She's older... probably in her seventies or eighties and while she is beginning to have some physical limitations she is far from incapable of taking care of herself. Still, you have been concerned enough about her recently that you not only have a key to her house but visit there often to check up on her.”

Ann’s wine glass hung forgotten in her hand as she stared at Sherlock, her lips slightly parted in shock. Her blue eyes opened wide in a way Greg found not only amusing but also rather captivating.

“On the other side is middle aged bachelor. While he acknowledges his home to be part of your territory, Lestrade, he is less than pleased by the fact that he cannot hold it himself. Beta, certainly. I doubt that the fact that he must be in the territory of an alpha is what bothers him though. His family while not as wealthy as they’d like to be thought, does have some certain... connections. Therefore, it is not so much that his home is in the territory of a neighbouring alpha that bothers him so much as the fact that he views you as socially beneath him and dislikes the fact that he is, by custom, in a somewhat subordinate position to you. I would imagine that it might not have been so bad, if you weren’t obviously both as dominant as you are while being fairly careless about the fact. Those of his social rank often feel that an alpha as dominant as you are should stand on more ceremony with those around them.

“He particularly dislikes the noise of the children on the other side of him and the fact that you indulge them enough to allow them to come over and play in your garden as well as their own. A rather idiotic way to be as it is to be expected that any alpha would like to have the pups in his territory near whenever it is convenient for that to be the case. And as children, they would naturally gravitate toward you and want to be near you for the protection you would provide. That’s simply instinct. This is exacerbated by the fact that she is a single parent trying to raise two... no, three boys. Therefore you are not only the alpha they would naturally took to for protection but, by extension, a sort of pseudo-pack alpha for them as their own pack alpha — not their father… an uncle perhaps? — does not live close enough to provide them with the sense of security they need. I imagine that he is also not particularly interested in being their pack alpha and has only taken on the role because of the ties of family.

“Because the boys so often come to play in your garden, it has caused some problems with the gentleman next door as they often do not take the long way around and instead routinely invade what he feels is his area. Not territory as he cannot hold territory but his particular part, his sub-territory if you will. There has been a great deal of trouble over this and it remains a standing argument between the three households.”

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and look at them.

Ann still sat as she had before, seemingly frozen to the spot. Greg couldn’t stop grinning. He felt ridiculously proud as if he’d had something to do with what Sherlock could do. It was stupid, but there it was. He’d told Ann about Sherlock, of course, but while she didn’t *dis*believe him about what Sherlock could do, he could tell that she often felt that he was probably exaggerating a bit. Being able to show her once and for all that that was not the case was fun.

Finally, Ann seemed to breathe again and put down her wine glass. She glanced at Greg questioningly. He just shook his head. There was no trick here.

She smoothed her napkin over her lap. “Right,” she said. “That was…” She seemed to think for a moment before looking up, pinning Sherlock with one of her piercing looks. “I know you probably have all kinds of… what did you call them? Deductions?” Sherlock nodded. “Alright. I’m sure you have many about me. If I ever hear you utter a single one of them you will be sorry. As long as that is understood… yes…”

She looked at Greg again, clearly still off balance. Then he watched her pull herself together. “Desert anyone?”

* * *

After Greg had helped clear the table and had gone to remove Sherlock’s things out of the washer and hung them up to dry, Greg found Sherlock sitting on the couch staring at the empty fireplace. He’d opened the front curtains and the world was more or less white beyond the glass. The snow having finally covered everything and made them into nothing but vaguely defined shapes in the yellow light of the street-lamps. It wasn’t snowing as hard as it had been before but the wind caught what was falling and whipped it into little cyclones and ephemeral, ghostly shapes. Neither the snow nor the wind seemed ready to stop any time soon.

Sherlock himself looked oddly small, sitting in the darkness of the room. Vulnerable and young, in Greg’s ill-fitting clothes in a way he’d never seemed before. His hair had dried in a profusion of utterly unruly curls. Looking at him here safe, clean, warm and fed while just beyond him the wind was whipping through the icy world of the streets that were his home, Greg felt an unexpected lump in his throat. This was just for one night. He knew that. Tomorrow night, where would Sherlock be? Out in that icy world somewhere, trying desperately to keep warm through the long night ahead?

“I’m not helpless,” Sherlock said flatly. “I have lived through winter on the streets before now. I’ll survive this one as well. You needn’t worry, I’ll still be around to do your job for you.”

Greg just shook his head. There was no point in either insisting that he was perfectly capable of doing his own damn job or that his concern for Sherlock wasn’t based entirely on selfish urges.

Greg pulled the curtains closed over the vista of the white world beyond and began to build up the fire.

While he piled the kindling in and a couple of twists of paper to get the fire started they shared a surprisingly comfortable silence.

“What about your things?” Greg asked, the thought only just having occurred to him. “I’m sure you own more than just the clothes hanging up in the other room. Aren’t you worried that you’ll get back tomorrow and they won’t be there anymore?”

“No,” Sherlock said, clearly unconcerned.

Greg gave him a questioning look. “Why not?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I know people, people I help out. In turn they keep an eye on what’s mine for me.”

“Pack?” Greg asked, wondering for the first time if Sherlock did, in fact, have someone to look out for him.

“No,” was the flat reply. Sherlock didn’t elaborate further and Greg decided not to press.

When the fire was finally going, Greg stretched out in his favourite armchair. Ann stopped in to say she was going to have a bath and headed upstairs, leaving Greg and Sherlock to their strangely comfortable silence.

After a while, though, Greg roused himself from his contemplation of the fire to turn to Sherlock.

“I’d meant to ask you, have you heard anything? Any rumours about who may be responsible for the deaths of those two girls? It seems likely, that they were chosen beforehand, maybe even stalked. Someone may have seen something.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of *course* they were stalked, Lestrade, don’t be stupid. The murderer certainly wouldn’t have just happened to stumble upon either of them where they were at the times of their death.”

“And?” Greg prodded when Sherlock didn’t continue.

“No,” Sherlock said finally. “No one saw anything, at least not anything other than what they’d expect to see. People come and go all the time, it’s not like your little neighbourhood here with a set group of people and set schedules. Strangers are commonplace. Whoever our killer is he knows how to look like he belongs. City workers are through all the time. There’s been some surveyors working near where the first victim died as there is talk, again, of trying to tear down part of the old brickwork there. They’ll never get city approval for it but occasionally people try to see if they can. There’s been some problem with the sewers not far from the second crime scene and there were workers there, in and out for at least a week before the death. The few newcomers to the area have been watched carefully, ever since the first murder. None of them seem to be involved, however. The packs have closed ranks and the omegas aren’t being allowed to wander about by themselves.”

“Neither of the victim’s had packs,” Greg pointed out.

“Yes, but the omegas living without packs are either seeking sanctuary with one of the local packs or leaving the area all together if they can. Three have banded together as a kind of pack, watching each other’s back. I think we’ll be waiting a little while before the next murder. It will be harder for the murderer to get an omega alone with everyone on high alert. Even harder with this weather that is keeping many in shelters they normally wouldn’t frequent. The shelters themselves are giving preference to omegas, in concern that if they are denied a place they may be killed next. For once there’s little enough grumbling about it. In fact, the alphas are insisting on it.”

Greg nodded. It wasn’t as though he’d been expecting much. He’d done a run of all city and municipal workers in the area himself and talked to most of them who spent any amount of time down there. He’d gone and talked to Constable Fitzhugh more about the area as well as any other officer who routinely worked down there.

He allowed the silent to fall again, oddly unwilling to press the farther with the case tonight. He was unexpectedly content just at the moment and found he’d rather keep the spectre of their killer out of this room. The house was warm, safe. Ann was soaking in the tub and when he looked a little while later, Greg found that Sherlock had dozed off on the couch. They were safe for now and murder seemed far away. 

It could all wait for another day he thought. In a little while, he’d wake Sherlock and usher him up to the guest room. Then he’d curl up with Ann and sleep, content in the knowledge that both were safe under his roof where he could protect them.

They had time.

Unfortunately, for once, Sherlock was wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a beta-reader! Thank you [Coian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coian)!
> 
> This chapter has been betaed and I'll be going back an replacing previous chapters with betaed versions over the next week or so.
> 
> To everyone in the US - Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you have a wonderful day filled with lots of turkey and good cheer. To everyone else - I hope you have a great day too.
> 
> I am thankful for Ao3 and for every single one of you how take time out of your busy day to read my stories. I am more thankful than you know for every kudo and ten times more for every comment.
> 
> This chapter brings in new members of the supplemental cast.
> 
> Sophie Emmett................. [Sophie Turner](https://33.media.tumblr.com/986df51ded59bbeda40e2907bd1b3bd6/tumblr_nfogipRbr31td3ydxo1_400.png)  
> Shaun Ferris..................... [Atticus Dean Mitchell](https://33.media.tumblr.com/b6a6d8551423babbd339f55ceafed473/tumblr_nfogipRbr31td3ydxo2_400.png)
> 
> Want visuals to go with your reading? Please see the full cast at my [tumblr](http://cleocalliope.tumblr.com/) page.

It had been unexpectedly difficult to allow Sherlock to leave the day after the snow storm. Even Ann was clearly concerned about what would happen to the kid once he left.

As often happened with Ann, her concern was not displayed by coddling. Coddling just wasn't in her nature. She all but bulled Sherlock over breakfast to make sure he ate enough, complaining that he hadn't eaten enough at dinner. Then they got into a heated argument when he refused to take the winter boots she wanted him to have. But that was Ann. The more she cared, the more she bullied. Sherlock insisted that he wouldn't take charity. Ann insisted that the boots in question were going to be thrown out anyway so it wasn't charity. It wasn’t true, of course. In fact, they were the warmest boots Greg owned and he’d been planning on wearing them that day. However, when she appealed to Greg for confirmation he backed her up without hesitation. He had other boots and could buy more. Clearly all Sherlock had were a pair of shoes that were definitely _not_ made for the snow. Greg was fairly certain that Sherlock knew they were lying but in the end he took the boots, the extra socks he needed to make the boots fit and an old backpack to carry his shoes and yet more pairs of socks in.

Greg saw Ann slip some of her energy bars into the bag when Sherlock wasn't looking. Greg himself took that opportunity to slip in twenty quid.

Dropping Sherlock off not far from the first murder scene was harder still.

Greg sat in his warm car watching Sherlock trudge away through the snow toward where Greg was sure he was living in some kind of lead-to or derelict building was… uncomfortable. It wasn’t right. But, he reminded himself as he finally drove away once Sherlock was out of sight, there was nothing he could do. Sherlock would only take so much help. One night under Greg’s roof during a winter storm was pushing it as it was, never mind the boots. There was also the fact that by the time he’d dropped Sherlock off the kid had been practically bouncing in his seat, eyes wild and yearning. Until Sherlock decided it was time to get off the drugs there was nothing Greg or anyone else could do to help him.

The week was rather slow at the yard, at least in Greg's division. A few of the homeless did freeze to death during the following week’s sub-zero temperatures. None of them, thank God, Sherlock. Greg checked each morning and on the mornings when he couldn't, Bradstreet did.

The week after that it warmed up and Bradstreet told Greg that Sherlock had been by to look at a burglary gone wrong she’d caught. He’d seemed alright. Or as alright as a drug addict got.

It was on Thursday morning, before dawn, that Greg got the call he’d hoped he wouldn’t get for a while yet.

 

* * *

 

It had been warmer that week but in the predawn hours it was still cold enough for there to be treacherous patches of ice on the roads and sidewalks and for the breaths of the officers on the crime scene to ghost out in puffs of white. The third scene wasn’t far from the first and when Greg arrived he could hear the howling from a block away.

A human voice shouldn’t be able to make a sound like that, he thought, shuddering. Somewhere between a scream and a wail it cut through the darkness and Greg didn’t doubt that everyone who heard it felt it go through them like a knife. The anguish in that sound hurt to hear and it hurried Greg along.

Down in an area that had once been part of the city's sewer system, several lean-tos and other temporary places to sleep had been built. Most looked as though they’d been abandoned, probably because of the cold. The city and various churches had opened more temporary shelters due to the severity of the winter. Near the end, though, well out of the wind, one shelter was illuminated by crime scene lights. Not far from it several officers held back a young man. It was from him that the wailing was coming. His eyes were glassy with shock and he didn’t seem to see Greg at all when the DI stepped in front of him. He was too pale, Greg thought even as Donovan appeared beside him.

“We’ve called for the EMTs," she said, having to raise her voice slightly to be heard. "They’re on route.”

Greg nodded. “In there?” he asked, nodded toward the lean-to. It was Donovan’s turn to nod. Greg took the opportunity to observe her. These murders were hard for veteran officers to handle, so it was worth it to make sure the younger officers were able to maintain. She was a little green maybe, but she’d hold. Good.

An old blanket had been strung across one side of the structure to serve as a door, tacked up with whatever could be put to the purpose. When pushed aside Greg found exactly what he knew he'd find.

He was pretty sure this one was younger than the last. She was blonde and petite but that was about all he could tell about her at the moment, beyond the fact that she was unarguably dead. Like the others, she had been sliced open from sternum to groin and everything within removed. Boxes had been stacked to make a kind of table at the back of the lean-to beyond the old mattress the body lay on. The killer had carefully placed the removed organs there, her intestines hung like a garland around the top from the nails that had been used to fashion the lean-to. A quick glance was enough to tell him that, as with both Cynthia and Felicity, this girl's reproductive organs were missing.

Not only the barbarity of it but the sick pleasure the killer had obviously taken in his almost artistic placement of her organs twisted something inside Greg.

He wasn't new to investigating murder. It was his job and he was good at it, good at getting into the heads of criminals. He'd studied the report he'd requested on the case from the yard's top criminal psychologist. None of it mattered just at that moment. He still found himself unable to comprehend why someone would do this to another person.

Raised voices caught his attention and he came back out to find that the EMTs had arrived but so had Sherlock who was once again engaged in a heated argument with Donovan.

“That’s enough!” Greg called, having nearly to shout over the increasingly hoarse wailing of the young man.

Now that Greg really looked at him, he saw that he was barely more than a boy. Maybe eighteen at the outside. His brown hair flopped into his eyes, as he stared unseeing toward where the victim lay.

One of the EMTs pulled his sleeve up and administered a shot. In less than a minute the wailing died down to a choked whimper that was almost more heartrending than the wailing had been.

“She was his mate,” Sherlock said, at Greg’s elbow. Greg turned, not having realised that Sherlock had moved over to look inside at the body. His voice, as he continued was flat, lacking any inflection. “Her name was Sophie Emmett. That’s Shaun Ferris. They bonded nearly two years ago.” He was silent for a moment before speaking again. This time his voice was barely above a whisper. “She was pregnant. It was their first.”

Greg shut his eyes. 

“Dear God,” Jones said softly beside him.

The loss of a mate was bad enough but for the boy to lose both his bond mate AND their child… Greg couldn’t wrap his head around the agony of it.

“Tell the EMTs,” he told Jones. They needed to know what they were dealing with. There was a possibility that they’d lose the boy as well and there wasn’t much time to be wasted if he was to survive this loss. Jones nodded, his face grey with shock and horror. There was evident pity there as well when he looked toward the boy... Shaun.

Greg turned his attention back to Sherlock. He was standing by the lean-to curtain pulled back, staring down at the body. At Sophie, Greg reminded himself. God, Sherlock had known this one. Actually, knew her. The first one he’d recognised but he hadn’t known her, not really. He'd just know of her. This was different. He knew the full names of both of the mated pair, knew how long they’d been mated, knew she’d been pregnant. Now, he was just standing there. Not poking at things, not even analysing the evidence as far as Greg could tell. Just staring down at the body of a girl he’d known.

“Sherlock,” Greg said gently, pulling his attention away from the body. “See if you can get anything from Shaun. He might talk to someone he knows more readily than to us.”

Sherlock started to shake his head but Greg persisted. “Please.”

"I'll be more use..."

"Getting us the information we need," Greg interrupted.

Giving Greg a frustrated glance, Sherlock dropped the curtain. He hesitated a moment more before moving towards where Shaun now sat on an old crate, still staring toward where his bond mate lay dead. His eyes now glassy with drugs as well as shock. There was an unusual hesitancy to Sherlock as he walked toward where Jones and the EMTs stood over the boy, talking quietly.

Suddenly, Shaun’s eyes focused and he saw Sherlock. In a moment he was up and running toward him, the sudden movement surprising those around him so that he got passed them before they could stop him.

Sherlock froze, not moving even when Shaun reached him and swung wildly, striking Sherlock hard enough that the kid stumbled back into the wall.

“You said you catch him!” Shaun screamed, his voice high and wavering. So slurred with tears and drugs that his words were somewhat mangled but still horribly clear. “You said you’d catch the guy and stop him!”

Greg grabbed Shaun, pulling him away from Sherlock who remained slumped against wall where he’d landed. “You said you’d stop him! You said all we had to do was be careful for a while and you’d put a stop to all this! Why didn’t you?! Why didn’t you stop him?! Sophie’s dead! He killed my Sophie! Where the hell where you?! He killed Sophie! He killed my mate! Why didn't you stop him?!”

The EMTs were there again, Jones and Greg held the kid down as another shot was administered. His voice slurred even more, still trying to yell at Sherlock until he his eyes fluttered and his tensed muscles went limp as he lost consciousness. One of the EMTs had gone to fetch the stretcher. Greg and Jones helped lift Shaun’s unconscious form onto it when it arrived.

When Greg turned back he found that Sherlock still hadn’t moved. He was leaning against the wall, his head bowed.

“Let me see,” Greg said, stepping forward and reaching out instinctively to see how badly the kid was hurt.

Sherlock jerked back away from him, head snapping up. “Don’t touch me,” he almost hissed and Greg took a step back, his hands lifted in a sign of surrender.

He could see the mark where Shaun’s fist had connected. The bruises was forming already and Greg wished he could get a closer look. A blow like that could crack and even break bone. Sherlock, however, looked ready to attack if Greg moved any closer.

“Look, you need to get some ice on that…” Greg began.

He may not have spoken at all for all the attention Sherlock paid. He moved around Greg to reach the front of the lean-to again, carefully staying out of arm’s reach as if afraid Greg too was likely to strike out at him.

He pulled back the curtain and began shooting out his rapid fire deductions about the crime in a slightly breathless voice. 

“Sherlock,” Greg tried to say, tried to interrupt, but Sherlock wasn’t listening. So, Greg pulled out his notebook and jotted down everything Sherlock told him about Shaun and Sophie, about the killer, about what the scene could tell him.

Greg knew there was little he could do to make this any less of a nightmare for the kid. If focusing on solving this was what Sherlock needed to get him through this, Greg wasn't about to argue.

When Sherlock finally wound down Greg tried to find words, something to say that might bring the boy some kind of comfort. He couldn’t find any.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock growled finally, stepping back and finally allowing the curtain to fall. “Sophie had a pack, had an alpha who was also her bond mate. She wasn’t a prostitute. Picked a few pockets, ran the occasional grift, but she never turned tricks. Ever. She doesn’t fit the pattern.”

"What kind of pack?" Greg asked.

Most packs, Greg's among them, were what were colloquially known as "paper packs". All that held these packs together was mutual agreement and the filing of paperwork to record that agreement. For the most part people came and went, belonging to various packs throughout their lives. Usually, giving their allegiance to whoever was in a possession of authority over them or to the family they belonged to.

These kids, however, were homeless. Their packs would be based on nothing more than an agreement between the parties involved. It was highly unlikely there would be anything as formal as a any kind of legally binding or written agreement. So, it's possible the killer didn't realise that she did indeed have pack beyond her mate.

That is, if they were like most packs. There was, however, another kind pack.

Intrinsic packs were different. Sometimes you met someone who belonged to you in a way beyond simple agreement or choice. Something in the brain chemistry changed in both the alpha and the pack member, they somehow seemed to recognise each other on a biochemical level. There had been any number of studies done on the phenomenon of inartistic pack relations and the nature of the bond involved. No one really understood it, though. Brain scans of alphas showed distinct differences when they smelled a paper pack mate and an intrinsic one. Brain scans of the pack members showed corresponding alterations when exposed to the scent of an alpha that was theirs by choice or theirs inartistically. If an alpha had more than one intrinsic pack member those pack members would, over time, even react to one another differently on a biochemical level.

While intrinsic packs were considered something special, something more than other packs, Greg himself honestly hoped he would never met anyone who was intrinsically his. The idea of anyone belonging to him in that kind of a way was... well, uncomfortable didn't cover it. For once thing, they would be his for the rest of both of their lives. There would be no way to get rid of them. The responsibility would be permanent. He couldn't help but feel that the weight of such a responsibility would be crushing.

Luckily, most alphas never had intrinsic pack members. It wasn’t common in this day and age and therefore it was not really something Greg needed to worry about when it came to his own life.

Still, it was something he had to keep in mind for his job. If Shaun and Sophie's pack had been based on more than an understanding between members and their alpha it would matter.

Sherlock still frowned toward where the body was now mercifully hidden. "Two were intrinsic. The other three were all one knee arrangements." It was traditional to go down on your knees to your alpha when joining a pack. A one knee arrangement was often used to describe an agreement that was little more than a temporary matter of convenience between both alpha and pack member. "Sophie was one of the intrinsic members of Shaun's pack, as well as being his bonded mate."

"Damn," Greg muttered. She didn't fit the established pattern of victim in any way.

“She _was_ homeless,” Jones offered, having returned in time to hear Sherlock's information on the pack. Clearly, though, even he knew that it was flimsy. Sherlock was right, this made no sense. The other two had been completely alone, no one to stand as protector. Sophie didn’t just have her alpha and bond mate, she'd had a full pack including one who was intrinsic.

Sherlock was shaking his head. “It doesn’t fit,” he said again, more to himself than to Greg. “Sophie should have been safe. I don’t understand. What did I miss?”

Again, Greg found himself searching for words of comfort. Again, he came up with nothing. The official line of 'I'm sorry for your loss' wouldn't help.

Donovan called him over then to talk to the Medical Examiner’s people who had just arrived.

When Greg turned back a couple of minutes later, Sherlock was gone.

 

* * *

 

Sophie Emmett had been seventeen years old. 5’3”, blonde and blue, a hundred and thirty-four pounds. The daughter of a prostitute and drug addict and an unknown father, she’d been on and off the streets since she was a child. Two years before she’d met Shaun Ferris. They’d bonded within three months and taken off together. She’d been four months pregnant at the time of her death.

There was little enough that could be got form Shaun during the first two days after Sophie’s death. He had to be kept heavily sedated while his body adjusted to the fact that he was no longer bonded. The loss of a bond mate was hard enough for anyone but when that bond was broken by violence it was not uncommon of the surviving half of the bond to follow.

On the third day, Greg finally was able to interview the boy but there was little enough to find out. The pack had felt that the area was becoming too dangerous. The other four members had been sent out in teams of two to scout out possible new locations in other parts of the city. They had left the day before.

The night of her death Sophie had been sick. The pregnancy had been easy enough until a week ago when she begun having morning sickness more or less constantly and there were few enough things that seem to help calm her stomach. She’d asked Shaun to go and get her a bottle of coke and some Gaviscon as she had been out of both. He hadn’t wanted to leave her alone but she’d been feeling weak after a particularly prolonged bout of vomiting and had just wanted to lie still. After some argument, Shaun had agreed to go and get what she’d asked for. There had been some trouble at the store as a new clerk was there and had given Shaun some trouble, having apparently decided the kid looked like he was up to no good. Eventually Shaun had had to pull out the money he had and actually show it to the guy before the clerk would even allow him to pick out what he’d gone there to get.

He’d been gone for little more than a hour when he returned to find Sophie dead.

“Quick work,” Donovan murmured as they walked away from Shaun’s hospital room. She’d accompanied him to question Shaun as he’s sent Jones to try and find the other pack members.

“He must have been waiting,” Greg said. “Sherlock said that he was likely stalking them prior to killing them and I’d say this confirms it. Not that I'd had much doubt on that head. The killer had to have been watching them, waiting for an opportunity. The minute Shaun left, he would have had to be there to start on her right away.”

“It’s a hell of a risk,” Donovan said. Greg hadn’t missed the way her lips had pursed in annoyance when he’d mentioned Sherlock. “I mean, how did he know how long the kid would be gone? If he'd come back while the killer was there it would have got nasty." Alphas had been known to tear those who attacked their mates apart with their bare hands.

Greg shrugged. “Maybe over heard them ahead of time. Shaun said that they’d argued about whether he would go or not. They might have raised their voices.”

“Or maybe it wasn’t our guy at all,” Donovan suggested as they got in the elevator.

“Meaning?” Greg said, pushing the button for the ground floor.

“The press was all over the last murder, everyone knows what was done to the other two. And Sophie Emmett doesn’t fit the victim profile. What if Shaun killed her? They both know that junkie of yours and he knows all the particulars. He could have told them anything that wasn’t in the papers.”

Greg considered. “Yes, but that would imply that Shaun has the same kind of medical knowledge our killer has. And that knowledge is pretty extensive. Unlikely for a boy who never even finished his GCSEs.”

Donovan looked like he’d burst her bubble and Greg had to resist the urge to pat her shoulder.

“It was a good idea, though, and one that we’ll have to follow up on just in case. We don’t want the damn lawyers trying to pin Sophie’s murder on Shaun when we finally get the killer into court.”

Donovan just nodded.

"Her mate said that the vic could fight," Donovan mused as they left the hospital. "Why didn't she?"

Greg shrugged, pulling open the car door and getting in.

"She was sick," he said as Donovan climbed in beside him.

"Yeah," she answered, bulking herself in as he turned on the car and pulled gratefully away from the hospital and Shaun's devastated grief. "Still, if a guy comes at me with a knife, or a scalpel or whatever, I don't care how sick I am, I'm going to try to fight."

Greg tapped at the steering wheel as he thought. "You're right, of course, but we don't know that she didn't fight. Should could have struck him several times without there being anything for us to find afterwards."

"And no one heard anything," Donovan said, sounding both frustrated and annoyed.

"They never do in that part of town."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the the holiday - Thanksgiving for those of us in the states - I'm gifting you all with two chapters at once. Just to show how grateful I really am for each and every one of you. <3

A week after Sophie Emmett’s death, Shaun Ferris took his own life.

While he wasn’t technically a victim of their killer, Greg placed his picture on the board next to Sophie’s anyway. Their serial killer may not have tied the rope Shaun had hung himself with, but he’d killed him just as surely as if he had.

The week after that, when Sherlock still hadn’t shown up at any of either Greg or Bradstreet’s crime scenes, Greg began to become a little concerned. It wasn't that it was unheard of for Sherlock to fail to turn up for a couple of weeks. Still, with the deaths of both Sophie and Shaun, Greg would have liked to know for sure that he was alright.

After the third week he began keeping an eye on hospitals and the morgue, but Greg kept telling himself that he really wasn’t _that_ worried. Sherlock wasn’t actually a child, no matter how infantile his petulance could sometimes be, and he’d been on his own for a while now.

It wasn't until no one at the yard had seen him a month and Bradstreet began helping Greg keep an eye on hospital admissions and bodies at the morgue that Greg was finally able to admit to himself that he was, indeed, worried.

It was frustrating. The kid was nothing to him, he reminded himself. He wasn't pack, he wasn't even a friend. But telling himself that Sherlock was just some junkie only made him feel like a fool because he knew better. Ann insisted that he was over reacting and maybe he was. The problem was that no one else worried. Even Bradstreet was only mildly concerned.

If there was family or pack out there looking for the boy they certainly weren’t looking very hard as Greg had more than once scanned the missing person’s files just in case. Sometimes it felt as if he and he alone cared whether Sherlock lived or died. Which was stupid. Bradstreet cared. Ann cared. It was, however, Greg alone who felt the growing certainty that something was very wrong.

It was a relief every day that the John Does continued not to include Sherlock. Still, it didn’t mean he hadn’t overdosed somewhere, wasn’t lying dead in some gutter.

Trying to find one homeless kid in a city the size of London wasn’t easy. But still, Greg tried.

In the beginning Ann gave him some grief for devoting some of his precious few off hours to locating someone who was not his responsibility. After a month though, Greg could raise the number of people concerned about Sherlock's whereabouts to three.

When Sherlock had been gone for five weeks Bradstreet came over one evening to compare notes on where the kid could have got to. Ann had little to offer but she sat with them and kept them well supplied with tea.

The need to find Sherlock, to know that he was at the very least still alive kept eating at him. Yes, Ann and Bradstreet were concerned, he wasn't alone in that. But both had other worries and other things to think about. For Greg it was harder and harder to concentrate on anything else. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself that Sherlock was more than capable of looking after himself, he didn’t believe it.

“He’s been on the streets for a while,” Ann said one night, threading her fingers through Greg’s hair while his head lay on her shoulder. “Long before he had you to worry about him. He’s a genius, you said so yourself. He’ll be fine.”

But Ann hadn’t seen his face after Shaun Ferris had hit him, hadn’t heard the flat, empty quality of his voice as he’d deduced the last moments of Sophie Emmett's life.

Greg put out feelers among the few homeless, prostitutes and drug dealers he knew and the snitches he’d cultivated since joining the force. Bradstreet did as well and managed to convince a couple of other officers to do the same. Nothing. It was as though Sherlock had dropped off the face of the planet.

 

* * *

 

It was late in the evening after nearly six weeks with no Sherlock when Greg's work mobile rang. Ann made a face as he slipped out of the living room but said nothing, just paused the movie they’d been watching. She'd been a cop's wife long enough by now.

The number was withheld which was odd but it wouldn’t be the first time one of his informants had called that way.

“Lestrade.”

“I believe you have been looking for someone,” said a cultured voice on the other end.

“I’m a police officer, I look for a lot of people,” Greg responded. Whoever this was it wasn’t one of his informants. “How did you get this number?”

“It wasn’t really that hard Detective Inspector. And please don’t play dumb. We both know exactly whom I am speaking of.” The man’s voice spoke of education and privilege. And money. Only one person he was looking for would be connected to any of that. And there was only one person likely to be able to get a hold of his number who was associated with that person.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Holmes?” Greg asked.

“Very clever Inspector,” the man — Holmes — answered. “I know where you can find Sherlock and I would be grateful to you if you would see about collecting him.”

“Why not do it yourself since you're so interested in him?”

“There are reasons why it would be better for it to be you, Detective Inspector,” Holmes answered placidly. “Also I’d suggest you hurry, Sherlock has been, shall we say, not quite himself these last few weeks. Even I have been unaware of his whereabouts for most of it. Please try to be quick.”

As soon as he got off the phone Greg called Bradstreet. The address he'd been given was not in the best part of town and he'd rather not do this without back up. Normally he’d have called Jones but while he respected his sergeant, this was a personal matter rather than a police one.

When he turned to leave he found Ann there. She said nothing, just held out his jacket.

"Thanks," he said, meaning the understanding more than the jacket.

Ann nodded. “It’s supposed to be a wet spring,” she said, handing him an old rain coat after he'd grabbed his keys. “The boy will need this.”

Greg kissed her and took the coat.

 

* * *

 

The directions Holmes gave Greg took him and Bradstreet to an area near Paddington where a network of train tunnels provided shelter from the wind for many of London's homeless. It was late and most had already bedded down for the night in darkened corners while other's clustered around trashcans where anaemic fires had been lit in hopes of warding off the cold. They all eyed the two police officers warily, some carefully fading back into the shadows, as they carefully made their way farther into the darkness.

“You were right, by the way,” Bradstreet said as they walked.

“Was I?” Greg asked, not really paying attention.

“Yes. I just found out that three weeks ago all my records, evaluations, and case reports had been accessed. Chamberlain is pitching a fit.”

She sounded perfectly calm about it, apparently unconcerned by this invasion of her privacy. Greg couldn’t help but smile slightly.

Many parts of these old tunnels had not been covered over in the days before London sprawled over them and made them part of the underground network. Some areas therefore included architectural flourishes like small areas of fake colonnades which created recesses into the brickwork. Many of these little alcoves had tarps or blankets stretched across them to give those who claimed them some semblance of privacy. It was one of these that they’d been directed to. Someone, Sherlock presumably, had strung not one but two blankets over the entrance, completely covering the area behind it.

“Sherlock?” Bradstreet called. There was no answer. No light shown from beneath the blankets.

Greg was reminded, uncomfortably of the place Sophie had died and found that it was with more than a little trepidation that he pulled the blankets aside.

A lump of yet more blankets lay huddled on an old and stained mattress.

“Sherlock?” Greg said, reaching out. Pulling the blankets away he found Sherlock lying there, still and pale. For one horrible moment Greg was sure he was dead.

Bradstreet dropped down on the mattress beside Sherlock, heedless of the stains on it.

She pressed her fingers to Sherlock’s throat even as she was pulling her mobile out of her pocket. “There’s a heartbeat,” she said, sounding suddenly breathless. “Barely."

Greg knelt down beside her and as Bradstreet called for an ambulance he checked Sherlock’s vitals himself, noting with a sort of detached feeling that his hands were shaking slightly.

Sherlock’s heart was beating. However, barely had been the operative word in Bradstreet's statement. His pulse was far too slow, far too weak.

Greg kept his fingers pressed to Sherlock's neck while they waited. Within fifteen minutes of their arrival, it stopped all together.

Bradstreet began compressions immediately. When she was done Greg pinched Sherlock’s nose, tilted his head back and forced his own breath into the boy’s lungs. He was not going to allow him to die, not like this. It was _not_ going to happen.

For another fifteen minutes they worked, Bradstreet counting aloud as she continued compressions then waiting while Greg breathed for him. They said nothing to one another, just worked with grim efficiency.

They were still working on him when the EMTs finally arrived. They took over compressions and replaced Greg with a bag. Greg actually wanted to object, had some strange wild feeling that it was only his breath that could bring Sherlock back, not something pressed into him from a bag. He swallowed it back, knowing it to be stupid.

As they were sliding him into the ambulance Greg went to get in as well.

One of the EMTs reached out to stop him. “Sir, you can’t…”

Bradstreet interrupted him before Greg could think of a reason he should be allowed to accompany them.

“He’s his pack alpha,” she said sharply.

The EMT backed off quickly. “Of course, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, climbing into the ambulance.

“I’ll see you in hospital,” was all she said.

As soon as they were moving the EMT in the back with Greg pulled out a defibrillator.

“Come one, come on,” Greg muttered watching Sherlock intently.

One jolt. Two. Three.

The heart monitor came to life.

“We have a beat,” the EMT said. Greg pulled in a ragged breath at the same time Sherlock did.

The drive through London seemed to take forever though Greg knew it wasn’t long at all. Once they reached hospital Sherlock was whisked off where Greg couldn’t follow. He sat on a plastic chair in the hall, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the tile floor in front of him. He felt utterly drained.

He didn’t move as someone sat down next to him some time later.

“I called your sergeant,” Bradstreet told him. “He’s collecting your car now and will bring it here.”

 _I should have thought of that,_ Greg thought. He just nodded.

“Thanks,” he said finally. “And for thinking to say that I was his pack alpha. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Bradstreet snorted. “You nearly are,” she said. “You’re the closet thing he’s go at any rate. Maybe if he lives through this you should try to get him to acknowledge you.”

Greg snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, that will be the day. Me as Sherlock’s alpha.”

Bradstreet shrugged. “Why not? Someone will have to be sooner or later.”

Greg sat up and looked at her in confusion, realising for the first time that she wasn't joking. “Why? Lots of people live without alphas.”

“You mean you haven’t figured it out?” she demanded, obviously surprised.

Greg just looked at her.

She suddenly laughed. “Oh my God, you haven’t have you? I thought for sure…”

Greg had to swallow back a growl. He was tired and worried and when that happened it was all too easy for the instincts of an alpha to overwhelm his normal self-control. Being made to feel a fool by a beta, even one he liked who was of equal rank to him in the force, did not sit well at the moment.

“What?” he demanded finally when she didn't answer.

“Sherlock’s an omega,” Bradstreet said.

Greg just stared at her.

She sobered and looked him dead in the eye. “Someone is going to have to step in," she told him. "He needs pack, needs an alpha willing to put up with him and willing to do what it takes to get him cleaned up before he kills himself. I for one do not want to go through another night like this one. And frankly, if you don't step in I don't think anyone else will."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a lovely holiday.
> 
> On-going thanks to the wonderful Coian.

The monitor beeped softly, somehow managing to define rather than interrupt the silence. Sherlock had been moved into a private room some twenty minutes before. Greg still didn’t know why and as he was supposed to be here as Sherlock's alpha he was kind of afraid to ask. He’d just been informed that that was where Sherlock was and so he’d headed there, still somewhat in a daze.

Generally speaking there were four possible gender/permutation combinations. Men were either alphas or betas and Women were either betas or omegas. The main physical differences between alpha males and beta males were the size of their balls — as alphas produced nearly twice as much sperm as betas — and the presence or absence of a knot in the presence of the triggering hormones from an omega in oestrus. Generally alpha males were better endowed, but that was a matter of averages rather than anything else. With women it was different as those things which distinguished betas and omegas form one another were not apparent on the outside and were almost entirely to be found in the nature of their oestrus cycles. Betas went through a rather quiet monthly cycle which included a five to seven day menstrual period, while omegas went through a far more dramatic three to five month cycle — depending on the omega — that included two to three days of intense sexual need, called heat, followed by another two to three days of a far lighter menstrual cycle than betas experienced. The end result was that alpha/omega pairs were about forty percent more likely to successfully reproduce than any other combination. With beta/beta pairs being the least fertile and often finding it extremely difficult to have children without medical assistance. Alphas and omegas were, therefore, often referred to as the breeding genders. There were some temperamental differences between the four gender/permutation types. They were, however, more a matter of generalities rather than universal truths.

However, the complicated nature of the genetics that coded for alpha/beta/omega traits meant that things sometimes got crossed, leading to the fifth and sixth sex/permutation combinations.

While not as rare as being born with sexual ambiguities, those born with the wrong permutation for their sex wasn’t common. It did, however, happen from time to time.

An omega.

Sherlock was an omega.

The idea kept running around in his head and he felt like an idiot.

“Why else would he be so careful about hiding his permutation?” Bradstreet had asked, still clearly finding Greg's surprise at the information amusing.

Greg hadn’t wanted to admit his theory that there had simply been something wrong with Sherlock’s scent. It seemed kind of ridiculous now. But really, as these things went that was statistically the more likely scenario. Some detective he was. He'd known the kid for months and the possibility of his having a crossed permutation had never even occurred to him.

He’d had an aunt who’d been a female alpha, so it wasn’t like it wasn’t something he’d ever come across before. And as a police officer he knew as well as anyone that the stereotypes regarding the natural behaviour for each of the permutations was rubbish. Many betas were more than helpers and aids, look at Bradstreet for one and Jones for another. Many alphas weren’t terribly aggressive or natural leaders. And, of course, not all omegas were submissive and home/family oriented. Greg was well aware of all of that.

Still, Sherlock was so… He was so assertive and caustic. Standing completely on his own and refusing any and all aid. Homeless and, for the most part, able to take care of himself.

For all that he knew better, Greg had mentally categorised him as an alpha based solely on his behaviour. And that being the case, his careful hiding of his natural scent suggested that there was something wrong with it, something either off-putting or confusing about it. He’d never even considered the possibility that Sherlock was one of those born with the wrong permutation, he just hadn’t.

Jones had arrived a bit more than an hour ago to give Greg the keys to his car and tell him where in the parking lot it was. He’d stayed long enough to be sure that Sherlock would live before heading back out. He had to work in the morning but said that he would tell Chamberlain that Greg had had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in. Bradstreet herself had left not long after. She had a hot case at the moment and couldn’t afford not to be in to work in the morning.

That left Greg to be taken up to Sherlock’s private room alone.

He’d stopped dead for a moment when he’d seen the white board outside of the room giving the details of the occupant.

       `Patient: Holmes (m/o)`  
       `Allergies: Aspirin, Codeine`  
       `Duty Nurse: Rachel`

It had taken a moment for him to force his legs to work again and propel him into the room. Holmes? Sherlock’s name…?

The nurse had been busy checking Sherlock’s vitals and hadn’t noticed Greg’s shock. On her way out she said that there should be a doctor in to talk to him shortly.

As soon as she was gone Greg stepped back out of the room to snatch the chart the woman had put into its plastic holder by the door on her way to check on another patient.

The name listed was ‘William Sherlock Holmes’. The fact that it did indeed confirm that Sherlock was an omega was almost inconsequential as a result. Sherlock had said that it was because of his mind that this government type by the name of ‘Holmes’ was so interested in him. And in all honesty, with a mind like Sherlock’s that was just about believable. Greg had known at the time, of course, that there were things Sherlock wasn't telling him. Still, though, _this_ he hadn’t expected. And why the hell would he go by the name Sherlock when he had a perfectly normal first name to use? Although, Greg reflected, William didn’t really seem to fit the kid. And the idea of someone calling him Will or, God forbid, Billy was laughable.

And come to that, how the hell had the hospital staff got Sherlock's full name? Who had given it to them? Holmes, it had to be. The other Holmes, he'd mentally corrected himself with a glance at the bed. He'd told Greg where Sherlock was and that he was in trouble. It stood to reason he'd have been ready when Sherlock got to hospital.

Now that he realised that this was a matter of family, everything that had happened over the last few months made a great deal more sense. The lengths Holmes had been going through to get Sherlock out of trouble and keep tabs on him… Yes, family seemed far more likely than any kind of job prospect.

Replacing the chart Greg slumped in the chair by the bed. Lying still in the narrow hospital bed, stiff white sheets pulled up to his chin and curls flattened against an institutionally perfect pillow, Sherlock looked younger than ever. According to the chart he was twenty-five. So young. Too damn young to be living the life he was. Sleeping under bridges, destroying his mind with drugs… never mind the fact that a month ago he stood over the eviscerated body of a friend.

The doctor walked in only moments later. An older alpha, he had the feeling of the old family practitioner about him.

“You would be Mr. Holmes’ alpha?” he asked.

Still feeling dazed and now feeling a bit of a fraud, Greg stood and nodded, accepting the hand held out to him. There was no way that he was going to admit at this point that Sherlock was without a pack and be kicked out of here for the trouble. Besides, Bradstreet was right, someone was going to have to stand for him.

“Greg Lestrade,” he said. 

“Dr. Carmichael,” the doctor said shaking his hand. “This has been a bad business.”

Greg grimaced, pushing all other thoughts to the back of his mind and focusing on the immediate problem. “Yeah, I know. I found him.”

“Are you the one who performed CPR?” the doctor asked.

Greg nodded.

“It’s a good thing you did. He wouldn’t have survived otherwise.”

Greg tried not to think about Sherlock dead and cold back in that hovel.

“He’ll be alright now though?” It was more a statement than a question, the kind that demanded an affirmative answer.

“That’s going to depend,” Dr. Carmichael said. “This was a close call and maybe that will scare some sense into him. But from the look of the boy he’s been using for a while.” The doctor looked to Greg for confirmation which Greg gave with an unhappy nod. “Then that’s unlikely. He’ll survive this but at the rate he’s going I’d say it’s only a matter of time before worse happens. Its not as if this is his first overdose.”

Greg looked away, feeling a ridiculous sense of shame. He wasn’t Sherlock’s alpha and it made no sense for him to feel as though he should have done something to stop this. The information that Sherlock had overdosed before when Greg hadn’t been there to help him… for reasons he couldn’t name that only deepened the sense of that he had some how failed.

The doctor put his hand on Greg’s arm and Greg looked back to see compassion on the doctor’s face. "As a pack alpha myself as well as a doctor, I do understand," he said. "You feel like you should have been able to stop this from happening. Unfortunately, drug addicts do as they please, even when it breaks the hearts of those around them.”

Greg swallowed back the emotions, surprised by the strength of them and touched by the doctor’s words.

“I know,” he said, nodding. “I’m a police officer so I’ve seen it all before.”

The doctor nodded dropping his hand. “Still, it’s different when it’s personal,” he said.

Greg could only nod.

For the next fifteen minutes the doctor went over exactly what they had done and what Greg could expect over the next several days as Sherlock recovered and began to detox. Greg was caught between a strong desire to get the hell out of here and the equally strong certainty that a herd of wild elephants couldn’t pull him away.

He didn’t want this, didn’t want responsibility over the lives of others. The only two people who looked to him as their alpha did so only due to either proximity or convenience. They didn’t need him to take care of them and they certainly didn’t need him to make decisions on their behalf. 

Here and now though he had to be the one to do this. Well, no he actually didn’t. He wasn’t Sherlock’s alpha, he _wasn’t_. But, as Bradstreet had pointed out, someone had to. The kid didn’t have an alpha, didn’t have a pack. Apparently he had some family but there was clearly something wrong there. Greg had no idea where they were or who they were, but what mattered was that they weren’t here. That smacked of people who didn’t care. Someone had called Greg, someone had given the kid’s name to the hospital and arranged for this room. That spoke of something. But they weren’t _here_. They clearly knew where he was and they weren’t making any attempt to do more than this. They were leaving his care in the hands of others. Who was here was Greg. Bradstreet had told them that he was the kid’s alpha and he hadn’t said differently. And so, here he was.

He could walk away, of course. He could tell them the truth and leave. Nothing was actually holding him here.

But no, no he couldn’t actually.

No matter how much he didn’t want to be the one to watch over Sherlock, the one to deal with the doctors and face the realities of caring for a drug addict who had overdosed… he couldn’t leave. All he had to do was think about walking out that door, abandoning the still silent form in the bed, and his stomach clenched in fear.

“One last thing,” the doctor said finally. “After an overdose like this, the detox will have to be complete. That means that we can’t give him any hormone suppressants. I don’t know how long it has been since his last heat…” he trailed off looking to Greg.

Greg had no idea but knowing Sherlock… “A while,” he said, feeling fairly confident that this would be the case.

The doctor nodded as though he’d suspected this.

“I would start making arrangements for him at an omega retreat as soon as possible then. There is one just outside of London, the Mech Clinic, which specifically works with omegas going through detox. I’ll have a nurse bring you the information. I would expect him to go into heat sometime in the next couple of weeks. Although, to be honest it could start sooner. We’ll be keeping a close eye on him.”

Greg rubbed his hand over his eyes, beyond exhausted. God he hadn’t even thought about that yet. “Will the NHS cover that particular retreat?” he asked. He didn’t know who had arranged for this room or how to contact them. He could hope that they would step in and help again but he couldn’t count on it.

The doctor frowned. “Yes, but there is a waiting list. It is primarily a private institution, they only take so many NHS cases. There’s little chance of getting him in in time.”

“Where else would you suggest then?”

“There are a few others with people on staff that could handle this situation,” the doctor said, clearly unhappy that he couldn’t have his patient in specialist hands. Greg liked him for that. He cared about Sherlock’s care, instead of just writing him off as another junkie not worth his time as so many doctors would have. “I’ll have the nurse bring you information on all of them, including the private clinic just in case.”

Greg nodded and held out his hand.

“Thank you,” he said. “It matters that you’re taking your time like this and not just writing him off. He… I know you probably see a lot of junkies and all of their pack mates probably tell you that they are special but… He really is.”

The doctor shook his hand with a small, sad smile. “They all are. I just wish they could see that.”

Greg felt his throat close slightly and all he could do was nod.

Once he was alone Greg sagged back into the chair beside the bed. He’d called Ann when they’d first arrived at hospital and she was expecting him to stay the night here. He’d said he’d be home later but she’d disagreed.

“You’ll stay as long as you have to, even if that’s all night. Don’t worry about it. Take care of him and I’ll see you in the morning.”

It would be a long night, Greg thought staring at the too pale face of a homeless kid who shouldn’t have mattered a thing to him. But Ann was right as was Bradstreet. Someone had to stand for him now as pack, as alpha. Even if anyone else had been willing to step in, Greg wasn’t sure he’d be willing to give up the charge. A fact that scared him more than a little.

He’d just sit and wait for the nurse with all the information he needed. Then he’d go home and go to bed. He certainly wasn’t going to sit here all night at the bedside of someone who wasn’t even a pack mate.


	9. Chapter 9

“Greg?” The voice was accompanied by a hand on his shoulder and Greg started awake.

He groaned trying to sit up and finding that his neck had apparently acquired extra joints since last he noticed. Sun shone in around the edges of the thin drapes pulled over the window. Sun? Thin drapes? What…?

He blinked again and remembered.

Sherlock. Overdose. Hospital.

He groaned again. He hadn't intended to spend the night here. He really hadn’t.

After talking to Dr. Carmichael Greg had waited for the nurse who had arrived shortly after with the promised information on retreats capable of dealing with an omega in withdrawal. He remembered starting to go through the various pamphlets and packets but that was all. He’d meant to go home but worrying over the huge ‘what now?’ hanging over his head, he’d ended up just sitting here in this stupid chair going over information that barely registered as he tried to get a handle on just what the hell he was doing. At some point he'd clearly fallen asleep.

Now it was morning and Ann was standing beside him looking both worried and amused.

“I didn’t mean to stay here all bloody night,” he muttered straightening up and wincing. It seemed it wasn't only his neck that decided to grow some extra joints over the course of the night. He glanced toward the bed but Sherlock appeared to still be asleep. Greg didn’t know if he’d ever regained consciousness last night or whether he should be worried about that or not.

Ann placed a bag she’d been carrying on the floor next to him. “I knew you would,” she said. She handed him a steaming paper cup and another bag, this one smaller, warm, fragrant and baring the mark of one of Greg’s favourite coffee shops. “There’s a change of clothes in the other bag.”

“I love you,” Greg said, with full heartfelt devotion.

She just smiled and pressed a kiss to his lips. “How is he?”

Greg took a fortifying sip of coffee.

He looked toward Sherlock again, not wanting to wake him. He nodded toward the door, getting up with another stifled groan.

Ann followed him out into the hall and Greg shut the door quietly behind them. He drank more coffee and attempted to convince the ligaments in his back that they actually were supposed to be flexible. He stretched and something in his back gave a startlingly loud crack. It hurt like hell but as that faded it seemed to take a good deal of pain with it. He sighed gratefully.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost ten,” Ann answered looking him over with amused sympathy. “You look like you’ve been through the wars, love.” She sobered then. “Was it really bad?”

Greg leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. “God, Ann. He's been living in a bloody railway tunnel. When Jane and I got there he was barely breathing. We called for an ambulance but before it got there he stopped all together. We had to do CPR on him for… I don’t know. It seemed like forever, but it was probably only about ten minutes or so. They had to defib him in the ambulance.”

Ann had taken his hand as he talked and she squeezed it now.

“Will he be alright?”

Greg shrugged. “Depends on what you mean. He’ll survive this. But how long until it happens again?” He looked at his wife, wondering what he was going to do about the situation. “The problem is bigger than just that though.”

Ann sighed. “Of course it is. Okay, what’s going on?”

“Sherlock’s an omega.”

Ann’s eyes widened. “Greg!” she gasped. “You let him stay out there when there was a killer hunting omegas…”

Greg held up his hands. “I didn’t know! Until last night I had no idea!”

She calmed. “None?” she asked, as though suspecting him of making this up to keep himself out of trouble. 

“You smelled him the night he stayed with us,” Greg said.

“Yes, but that was one night,” Ann objected. “You mean he was that ambiguous all the time?”

Greg nodded.

"And you never asked him why he did that?"

"Of course I asked," Greg said. "He ignored the question. Which, if you think about it isn't all that surprising."

“Alright,” Ann sighed. “So his alpha…”

Greg shook his head. “He doesn’t have one.”

Ann blinked. “No pack at all?”

“None,” Greg affirmed.

"Dear God."

“So, I have a problem. Jane told the EMTs that I was his alpha so that I could ride in the ambulance with him. When I got here… _Someone_ had to be here to stand as pack so I did. Now it’s morning, the doctors all think that I’m his pack alpha and as there’s no one else…”

“Sooner or later they’re going to realise that he has no pack,” Ann said. “What then?”

Greg shook his head. “That’s only if they access his information and why should they? I’m here saying I’m his alpha and unless that’s challenged they aren’t likely to waste their time going after his other information.”

Ann sighed. “But you’re _not_ his alpha. Love, I know you care about him and feel responsible for him, but you can’t actually intend to step in and Claim him as pack. For one thing I doubt he’ll be all that pleased about this when he wakes up.”

Greg shrugged holding out his hands in defeat. “What am I supposed to do? Just abandon him. Now? The doctors said that because of what they are giving him to help him over the withdrawal, they can’t give him any suppressants. He’s going to go into heat. Soon. Two weeks at the latest and someone has to find somewhere for him to go. Most omega retreats can’t deal with someone in withdrawal and there’s so little time to find anywhere to take him. The time it would take to find someone who can stand in as his alpha and _then_ find somewhere for him to stay… The time just isn’t there.”

Ann closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, I do see. Well, I suppose I’m not all that surprised.”

“Sorry?” Greg asked, uncertain what she meant.

“Greg, love. You brought the kid home to stay the night at our house. You brought him into your personal territory and spent a good deal of the evening watching over him as he slept on the couch.”

“That was just…”

Ann cut him off. “You’ve been looking out for him for some time. Now it turns out that he’s not just on his own but an omega on his own. No, you're not the kind of man to turn your back on a friend in need but this is more than that. You feel a responsibility for him.

Greg shrugged. “I never intended to take him on as pack. You know how I feel about pack.”

It was Ann’s turn to shrug. “Yes, but you are still an alpha and an extremely dominant one as well. The fact of the matter is that it’s in your nature to have a pack to protect and care for. I don’t need much in the way of care and neither does that Constable of yours. You care about us but we’re not going to satisfy the alpha side of your nature forever.”

“There’s a difference between having a pack and having,” Greg waived his hand toward the room, “this kind of problem to deal with.”

“But you _are_ dealing with it,” Ann said. “And by your own choice. Be honest, if someone else came in here right now, someone you didn’t know, and told you that he was Sherlock’s alpha and you could bugger off now, would you do it?”

After a moment Greg unhappily shook his head. “Not without checking him out thoroughly beforehand.”

“Not even then, I’d bet,” Ann said. “He’s yours Greg. I think part of you has recognised that for some time now. Until you see him safely with an alpha you can trust to be a good pack leader for him you’re not going to let him go.”

Greg swore. But Ann was right. She usually was. Until he knew for sure that Sherlock was safe with an alpha Greg knew would look after him, give him the attention and protection he needed, Greg wasn’t going to give up his protection of the kid.

For now, he’d just have to accept the responsibility he’d taken on.

 

* * *

 

One thing was glaringly obvious now, Greg thought as he returned to the room after changing his clothes and getting a second cup of coffee from the cafe downstairs. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him until Ann had pointed it out. If Sherlock was an omega then he was a potential target for the killer. And Greg was willing to bet that the kid hadn’t taken the least precautions.

“You bloody idiot,” he muttered, toward the bed. He was angry, frustrated and unaccountably hurt that Sherlock hadn’t trusted him. He knew that last one was stupid. He’d known Sherlock only trusted him so far but… Well, he felt it just the same. “You’re as at risk as any other omega. But I’ll just bet you haven’t even tried to take any extra precautions, have you?”

“I’m not female.”

The reply was barely more than a mumble, but it was a reply.

Greg couldn’t help but be relieved in spite of himself. Even mumbling drowsily, Sherlock still sounded like his normal petulant self.

“We have no reason to believe that the killer will only kill female omegas,” Greg snapped, sitting back down in the chair by the bed.

“Serial killers…” Sherlock began.

“Usually stick to one sex,” Greg interrupted. “But there have been plenty who switch between sexes due to permutation. Like it or not, you’re at risk.”

Sherlock cracked an eye at him and looked annoyed. “I can take care of myself.”

Greg snorted. “The fact that Bradstreet and I had to spend nearly twenty minutes performing CPR on you last night while we waited for the damned ambulance would suggest otherwise.”

Then as though mentioning why Sherlock was in hospital had broken a dam Greg hadn’t known was there, the anger and frustration poured forth in an unstoppable torrent of words.

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!” he demanded. “You’re not an idiot, you know how dangerous what you’re doing is! And what the hell are you doing using anyway! Your mind…!” Greg stood up and started pacing. “You’re one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met! You have an incredible mind and a gift for observation like I’ve never seen! What the hell possessed you to just throw it all away? And for what? A temporary high? A few minutes of pleasure? Are you really that stupid under all that intellect?”

Sherlock was looking toward the window, his lips compressed. He looked so young that it broke Greg’s heart.

“Tell me,” Greg said more calmly when Sherlock remained silent. “What can cocaine give you that’s worth that amazing brain of yours?”

“It’s because of my brain,” Sherlock said, giving Greg a glare. He needed a haircut and the curls flopping into his eyes should have ruined the effect, somehow it didn't. He looked away again, the glare melting into something so lost it hurt to see. “You don’t know what it’s like," he snapped. "All the facts, all the things I see. I can’t turn it off. I see everything, all the colours all the details all the time and I can’t turn it off! And I don’t just see, I can’t _not_ observe! I can’t stop the deductions, can’t turn it off to get ten minutes of peace and quiet! It just keeps going all the time!”

Greg swallowed. This was one possibility he hadn’t considered.

“And don’t ask if I’ve ever tried lithium or some such thing,” Sherlock continued, frowning down at the covers before him. “They started taking me to specialists when I was still a child. I’ve been on just about everything at some time or another. They don’t help. Some of them muddle me so much that I can’t think or make me into a zombie that can’t deduce anything. But I can’t live like that. Cocaine… it helps. It makes my thoughts flow like quicksilver, I can think and think and it doesn’t hurt or tire me out. I can _be_ my thoughts. All of it right there at my fingertips and I don’t want to block all the colours out then. I can see and deduce without it becoming too much.”

Silence fell while Sherlock continued to stare at the coverlet and Greg struggled to find something to say. He’d been astonished, amazed by Sherlock’s deductive abilities from the first day. But he’d never considered that it wasn’t an effort, that it was something that happened without conscious volition. What would it be like to have a constant stream of extraneous information pounding into your head? All the time, every day and not be able to turn it off? It would drive him mad, he thought.

But this was what Sherlock lived with, every day. Was it any wonder he turned to drugs, desperate to turn it off or at the very least make it stop hurting?

Greg took a deep breath and tried to order his thoughts. He understood what Sherlock was saying, God did he ever. But…

“Do you want to die?” Greg asked bluntly. Sherlock looked up at him, clearly taken aback by the question. “Do you?” Greg asked again. “Because that’s what’s going to happen. The road you’re on, it’s a damn short one. Bradstreet and me, we saved you last night but we might not be in time next time. And I need to know if we should even bother trying to save you again.”

Sherlock’s lips tightened and he looked away again.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Sometimes I…” He shook his head. “It’s not that I want to die as such but I’m not sure sometimes whether it’s worth the fight to keep living.”

Crap. That was _not_ the answer Greg had been expecting to hear, hoping to hear. If Sherlock had wanted to live then getting him to do what he had to do to survive was possible, but if he wasn’t sure he even wanted to live…

“What about Sophie?” he asked.

Sherlock’s head snapped back around. “What?” he demanded.

“I’m trying to find out who killed her, I am. I’ve been working myself and my team ragged on this case. But it’s not enough and every day without a viable lead is one day closer to another body, you know that as well as I do.”

Greg came over to stand over the bed, leaning down he placed his hands on either side of the pillow Sherlock’s head rested on, not allowing him to look away. “You couldn’t stop what happened to her. None of us could. Without evidence we can’t do a damn thing. But the fact is, we need you. Sophie needs you. We couldn’t stop her death but who’s next? We have time here before the next murder. I don’t know how much but some. If you decide to check out now, who’s going to stand for her?”

“You will,” Sherlock said softly, but he was clearly shaken. This then, was the way to reach him. This could touch something inside that strange mind in a way nothing else Greg had said had. “You’ll stand for her.”

Greg shook his head. “I can’t. Not without you. God help me but I need your help.”

Sherlock looked away again, staring off to the side. So young. Still so damned young. Twenty-five according to his chart but there were many kinds of age and maturity. Sherlock was technically an adult and certainly had a far more mature understanding of the hardships of life than most people ever had. Here and now, though, faced with emotions rather than practical knowledge, he was as much at a loss as if he were a child still.

Greg decided to back off for the moment and give Sherlock some time to think.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in posting this chapter. I'm currently the manager of a mall kiosk and as you can imagine we are SWAMPED. Things like days off and sleep are starting to become foreign concepts. *g*
> 
> This chapter is in fact the first scene I thought of in this entire story and is, in some ways, the REASON for the story. I hope you like it.

For the next three days Greg split his time between the yard and Sherlock's hospital room. Greg had seen withdrawal before, of course, but the doctor had been right. It was different when it was personal. As much as he knew that this was something Sherlock had done to himself, he still ached for the kid.

He and Ann divided the time between them, trying to make sure there was always someone with him, at least during the first twenty-four hours and as often as possible after that.

During those days Greg had been afraid each time he left that he would return to find Sherlock's room empty and the kid back out chasing the next high. Every time that he came back to find Sherlock still there was a relief. Even the time he came in to find Ann holding a basin while Sherlock threw up. And to find that scene a relief was telling... and more than a little sad probably.

Bradstreet helped when she could but as she had a hot case there was little enough she could do. She did, however, bring a pile of cold cases for Sherlock to look through. Generally he was not feeling well enough for anything but the cases were something to help distract him from the misery of it all and that proved a blessing. This was especially the case after the first two days when he began to feel a bit more himself. The cases were a Godsend then as they were likely all that was keeping Sherlock from getting himself thrown out of hospital. Being miserably sick just made him harder to deal with and made it all the harder to remember that he was, supposedly, an adult. He was as petulant as a spoiled child, deducing every private thing about every nurse and technician who entered his room until they began passing off medications to Ann and Greg — which was very much against hospital policy — in order to avoid having to deal with him. He did, however, much to Greg's amused surprise continue to refrain from deducing anything about Ann. The reticence was odd but welcome.

It was not until the fourth day, when Sherlock was feeling himself enough to have solved the first of the cases Bradstreet had brought by that Greg finally began to feel that the worst was over.

Which, of course, was when things started to go wrong again.

Greg had brought some of his own work to hospital with him and had it spread out on a table by the window while Sherlock made his way through yet another cold case. They’d both been working in silence for quite some time when a nurse came to check on Sherlock’s vitals as they did at various points during the day. It was part of the routine here and not something to be alarmed about. He even knew the nurse’s name at this point. Nonetheless he felt distinctly ill at ease the entire time she was there, only relaxing again when she had left. It was odd and not at all like him but he was tired. So he put it down to that and went back to the agonisingly boring paperwork before him.

It was only sometime later when a technician came in to check the heart monitor, that Greg realised that there was a problem. The man was an alpha and the moment he entered the room Greg wanted to tear his throat out. He had to clench his hands into fists to keep from attacking the man.

Sherlock, who was entirely engrossed in a case file didn't appear to notice a thing for which Greg was grateful.

Once the tech had left Greg felt almost sick. Uncertain what was going on he decided to head down to the canteen. A few moments to collect himself and figure out why he was feeling this way wouldn't hurt. It was unexpectedly difficult to leave the room though. It was as though a part of him was afraid something would happen while he was gone. He actually found himself checking the corridor as he headed to the elevator, making sure the tech wasn't around.

He started to feel a bit more like himself as he got a sandwich and coffee. Still, he couldn't sit downstairs and eat. He felt he had to get back up to the room. This constant apprehension wasn't like him and his mind worried at the problem as he headed back upstairs.

It wasn't until he reentered Sherlock's room and took a deep breath that he realised exactly what was happening. It had been growing over the course of the afternoon and he hadn't realised it until he had left and come back. He knew that smell.

Of course, he was well aware that Sherlock was going to go into heat at some point but what he had not expected was for it to happen this soon.

He wasn't in heat yet, thank God, but he was ramping up toward it and Greg had not yet found a place for him at one of the few omega retreats that could handle an omega going through withdrawal.

Shit. Oh, shit.

Now what?

What was more, Greg himself was going to have to get out of here soon. Sherlock was not family or pack. It wouldn't be long before the pheromones would start to affect him in more than just making him protective. And just the thought of that... with _Sherlock_ of all people... The idea actually made him a little queasy.

He was going to push the button for a nurse but changed his mind quickly. Having a nurse in the room at this point would probably not be a good idea.

He could still see the door of Sherlock's room from the closest nurse's station thankfully. He was too worried at this point to want to go where he couldn't make sure another alpha was not encroaching. Damn, this is not good.

"Can you page Dr. Carmichael, please?" Greg asked the nurse.

"One moment. Let me see where he is," she said with the slightly pitying smile all the nurses had been giving him once they realised that he was the pack alpha of the most recalcitrant omega in existence. After a few moments of tapping she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Dr. Carmichael has already left for the evening. Is there a problem?"

"Yes," Greg said with feeling. "Sherlock's... that is... He's starting to go into heat early."

The nursed nodded. "Yes, of course. I understand," she told him. Of course, she did. He wondered how often this happened around here. This whole corridor was for betas and omegas only so obviously it happened too often to allow alphas in with the omega patients.

"He's not in heat yet," Greg told her. "But he's starting to produce early heat pheromones. I'm not sure what to do. He wasn't supposed to go into heat for another week. I don't have a place at a retreat for him yet."

The nurse nodded. "I'll contact Dr. Aali. She's one of our omega specialists."

"Thanks."

Heading back to Sherlock's room Greg began to wonder if he should stay in the hall. He didn't think he had anything to worry about just yet. God, he hoped he didn't. Unfortunately, until this new crisis was dealt with he couldn't exactly stay away.

When he got back he found Sherlock talking on the phone to Bradstreet regarding the case file he had just been looking at. Greg wondered for a moment where Sherlock had got a mobile until his hand went to his own pocket.

"Did you pick my pocket?" he demanded when Sherlock got off the phone.

"Of course, I did," Sherlock said, not bothering to look up from the new file he was already studying. He tossed Greg's phone carelessly onto the coverlet at the foot of the bed where Greg snatched it up.

"Sherlock, you can't just..." Greg don't bother finishing. Sherlock wasn't listening and he seriously doubted he would care what Greg said even if he had been.

Dr. Aali was, thankfully, both prompt and also omega, so her entrance failed to raise Greg's hackles.

There was only so much she could do, though.

"I don't dare to give him any suppressants at this point. The best we can do is use a masker. However, all it will do though is tone it down a bit."

Sherlock was ignoring them entirely and Greg finally turned on him in annoyance. "Don't you care what's going on?" he demanded.

"Yes," Sherlock said flatly still not looking up from the file in front of him. "That's why I'm focused. If I'm going to spend three days insensible to what's actually important then I want to get as much done before then as possible."

There was really no answer to that so Greg just turned back to the doctor. "What about other alphas, those on staff and other patients? He can't stay here through his heat but I haven't been able to get a place in a retreat yet."

Dr. Aali frowned considering. "It's early enough that we'll be alright for tonight. I'll simply put a flag on his file that no alpha staff members are allowed in here. Since this part of the wing is for betas and omegas only other patients won't be a problem. I'll go and get a masker now and see what I can do about finding him a place in one of the retreats. There's probably little chance of getting him somewhere with specialists for his situation at this point, but I'll see what I can do."

Dr. Aali was back again shortly with an injection but as she had said, all it did was tone down the pheromones Sherlock was producing, not alter the nature of them. By tomorrow afternoon at the latest he'd be driving any alpha near him into a mating frenzy. Which meant that Greg himself would have to make any and all arrangements now and get the hell away from him before...

Greg stopped pacing.

He had to get out before he started reacting to the pheromones. But that was just the thing, he already _was_ reacting to them. He shouldn't be, not yet. It should smell good, alluring even, but that was all. Greg had smelled omega heat pheromones before. They'd made him so damn horny it had taken all his willpower to call for a beta officer to deal with the situation and get the hell out of there before he did something he really did not want to do.

True, it was early on and far too early to drive any alpha into a frenzy but he should be feeling _something_ of the kind. There should be at least a faint stirring of arousal by now. The scent at the very least should be enticing on some level.

It wasn't.

Oh it was affecting him, Greg felt that if an alpha were to walk through that door right now he would have a hell of a time not attacking them. But he didn’t find the scent enticing or arousing in any way. The alpha part of his nature was urging him to protect only. There wasn't the slightest desire for anything more.

That was all wrong. The only time the scent of an omega in heat failed to rouse even a flicker of desire from an alpha was in the case of close family. Even within packs there should be some desire to...

The door opened and Greg was pulled abruptly out of his thoughts as every sense went on alert, not so much by the unexpected arrival but by the way Sherlock tensed, his head snapping up and the pages he had been holding slipping from his fingers.

Greg had stepped between Sherlock and the door before he even had a chance to see who it was who had arrived. It was simple instinct propelling him, not conscious thought.

And that was all wrong too, damnit.

The man who stepped into the room was impeccably dressed in a suit far too fine and perfectly fitted to be anything but bespoke. And honestly, who wore a three-piece suit at ten o'clock in the evening? He was, perhaps, a little taller than Greg, brown hair perfectly trimmed and ruthlessly tamed, bland tie carefully and tightly knotted around his neck. An umbrella seemed to be serving the purpose of a walking stick and he leaned on it slightly as he observed Greg with cool civility.

What was really odd was that there was no scent. None. The man before him was putting off no pheromones at all as far as Greg could tell. It was almost as though he had no permutation. Greg knew there were high end suppressants that could result in a complete lack of any permutation pheromones but they were expensive and not easy to come by. Greg had never guessed just how confusing that complete lack of scent would be.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector," he said with a slight nod to him. "Sherlock," he said with another, not quite so deferential nod toward the bed. The voice was rich and cultured and Greg was sure he had heard it somewhere before, but he was equally certain he’d never seen the man before. He would have remembered.

"Go away," Sherlock snapped. "I don't want you here!"

Greg's spine stiffened. He had no idea who this man was but every instinct he had was screaming at him to get him away from Sherlock. Sherlock was going into heat and he didn't want this man here. That was all that mattered to the alpha part of him at this precise moment.

Which made no damn sense. There was no reason for this. If he was affected by Sherlock’s heat pheromones at all he should be more interested in the omega behind him than in the man — threat, the alpha inside insisted — before him. There was no reason for this unless Sherlock had been close family.

No. No, he was wrong. There was one other possibility.

And that had everything to do with pack.

Facts began to line themselves up in his mind.

The fact that he had felt a need to protect Sherlock... well that could be put down to the fact that he both liked the kid and just maybe because some part of the alpha in him had recognised that he was an omega. But what about the fact that he had not thought twice about bringing him into his territory, into his home? It had been odd, even Ann had pointed that out.

Then there was the way he'd felt as he'd sat in front of the fire that night, Sherlock asleep on the couch. The way he himself had slept that night. He always slept lightly when they had guests. Even people he trusted, like Ann's parents. It wasn't that it bothered him to have them under his roof. Far from it. But it was instinct to sleep lightly simply because there were non-pack members in his home.

The night Sherlock stayed with them, though, Greg hadn't slept lightly. If anything, he had slept more soundly than was his wont. He'd gone to bed feeling content in a way he hadn't really thought about until now. 

Then there was how Sherlock had responded that evening. Greg hadn't Commanded him to go upstairs and shower but he had been unable to keep a bit of the tone of a Command out of his voice. And against everything Greg knew about Sherlock, he had obeyed. And he had done so quickly, as though it was, at least in part, a knee jerk reaction to do so. Then all evening, a look from Greg had been enough to keep Sherlock from pushing things with Ann. Yes, being an omega in a dominant alpha's territory _may_ explain some of that, but it didn't explain enough of it. Especially not with Sherlock.

Greg had put it down to coming down off a massive high but now that he thought about it... about how odd was it that Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch so quickly. Sherlock who was always on his guard around everyone, even Greg. Sitting in Greg's territory, though, he had let that guard drop so completely that he had allowed Greg some control over him and then fallen asleep with Greg in the room.

None of that made any sense, not really.

Not unless…

No, _God_ no. That couldn’t be it.

"Who are you?" he demanded, trying to push the growing certainty that he was in a great deal of trouble out of his mind.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said. "Just leave,” he told the man.

The man brought his umbrella in front of him and rested both his hands on it.

"Now, now Sherlock," he said in a supercilious tone that put Greg's teeth on edge. "You are in hospital due to an overdose and are about to go into heat. You require my assistance."

Sherlock struggled to push the covers off him and tried to get to his feet. "I don't need _anything_ from you!" he hissed.

"You cannot be without pack at such a time..." the man began.

Nothing that had happened made sense. Not unless Sherlock belonged to Greg.

 _Really_ belonged to him.

Greg stepped forward placing himself directly in front of the man, blocking even his sight of Sherlock.

"He’s not without pack."

The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about them. The idea that anyone thought Sherlock was alone and unguarded raising his hackles.

And now… now he knew why, didn’t he?

The only way an alpha wouldn't react sexually to the heat pheromones of an omega member of his pack who was not a close relative was if that pack member _was intrinsic_. To an intrinsic alpha that scent from an omega who belonged to them but was not their mate would do no more than rouse the need to defend. And that would start with the first shift toward heat, long before any other alpha would be affected.

A raised eyebrow was his only reply from the man before him but Sherlock's scrambling efforts to disentangle himself from the sheets behind him stopped.

For a moment the three of them stood there as a tableau and a small portion of Greg's brain was screaming at him that this _was not_ what he wanted. He did not want to take responsibility for Sherlock. But that part was far smaller than the instinct driving him to protect the kid from this apparent threat.

Greg hadn't stopped to think the night he and Bradstreet had found Sherlock. He'd responded as any alpha would when dealing with a pack member. It was why no one, not the EMTs, the doctors or the staff here questioned Greg's role in Sherlock's life. Second thoughts aside, he had stepped up to act as Sherlock's alpha without hesitation. And what was more, for all that the kid was testy with him, Sherlock hadn't once done anything since he'd been here to indicate that Greg _wasn't_ his alpha.

"Do you then claim him as pack?" the man asked finally, as though amused.

He had never really wanted the responsibility of being a pack alpha to begin with and the idea of someone truly belonging to him, of the bonds that came with intrinsic pack... Frankly, the idea terrified him. How could he take on the weight of such a responsibility? It was permanent, life changing. He couldn't accept that kind of responsibility. He didn't want it. But... but Ann had been right. He wasn't willing to give Sherlock up. At this moment he knew there was nothing anyone, including Sherlock, could do to make him turn away. And if he knew anything about intrinsic packs, he would always feel this way. For the rest of his life.

"Yes," he said, firmly.

If it meant keeping this man away from Sherlock he would say just about anything at this point. The fact that part of him still fought the idea of taking on the full responsibility for Sherlock’s life was salved by the fact that they could deal with disentangling himself from Sherlock after it was over. After all, just saying it here and now didn't make them pack. To become pack Sherlock would have to...

"I acknowledge the claim."

The words were said softly and for a second they didn't register at all. Then Greg turned, unable to keep a soft gasp from escaping.

The words were ritual. The alpha claimed and the pack member acknowledged the claim or didn’t. It was how packs were made at their most basic level. Greg had claimed Sherlock to get this man out of here, he had never expected Sherlock to actually acknowledge that claim.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking far too fragile in the hospital gown he wore. The expression on his face somewhere between confusion and defiance.

For a long moment they stared at one another.

_Mine._

Greg felt the weight he had been avoiding all his adult life settle over him.

He loved Ann but she was his only to the extent that she chose to be. This was different. This was inescapable. It was forever. And he'd been right, the weight of it was _very_ heavy.

Except... He'd expected to feel weighed down, trapped by such a weight. He didn't. He felt as though it anchored something inside him. He didn't feel weaker for the weight. Paradoxically, he felt stronger for carrying it.

As he turned back to the man in the doorway he felt his shoulders drop at the release of internal tension even as his spine straightened under the responsibility he now carried.

He met the man's sardonic gaze without flinching. At that moment, he knew with unfailing certainty that he could and would kill this man if he had to. It should have scared him. It didn't.

After a moment the man bowed his head again just a little, this nod one of respect to a dominant alpha instead of sardonic greeting. How he could put that much meaning into a simple tip of the head Greg had no idea, but he did.

"Then it seems I must stand as witness to both claim and acknowledgement. Good evening to you both."

As soon as the door shut behind the man the anger drained away and Greg found it was all that had been keeping him on his feet. He almost stumbled backward to collapse into the visitor's chair. He stared at Sherlock.

The kid scowled. "If you think for one minute that this means you can tell me what to do..." he began indignantly.

Greg just started to laugh. And continued to do so until he was holding his sides in pain, spurred on by Sherlock's affronted expression.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Happy Kwanzaa! Happy Three Kings Day! Happy St. Lucia Day! Happy Yalda! Happy Solstice! And a Joyful Yuletide to all!
> 
> I hope you're all comfortably ensconced and ready to settle in for a happy holiday season. The longest night is passed and we can now buckle down to celebrate the slow but sure return of the light. Now if only February didn't stand between us and summer. *sigh*
> 
> I LIVE for feedback so please give me a little Christmas prezzie by leaving some. What do you think of all this? Is the whole intrinsic pack idea working for you? Who do you think the killer is? *g*
> 
> Due to holiday madness it may be a week or two before I can get the next chapter finished and out to you. So, I'll see you all in the New Year.

Ann stopped dead in the doorway when she arrived some thirty minutes later, her eyes widening with sudden concern.

Greg rose and went to her. Sherlock was once again focused on the files before him and ignored them both.

Taking the shopping bag she had brought out of her hand and leaving it on the floor beside the door, Greg pulled her to a waiting room just down the hall where he could watch the door to Sherlock's room but still talk to Ann without interruption.

"Greg, you can't be in there, he..." 

"We have much bigger problems than my response to Sherlock," Greg said. "And as it turns out, that’s the one problem we _don't_ actually have."

“How…?” she began then stopped. “Okay, explain.”

Greg took a breath. "He's mine. Intrinsically."

Ann opened her mouth before shutting again. She repeated that a second time before taking a deep breath herself. "Okay," she said slowly, drawing out the two syllables of the word.

Greg just waited for it to sink in. He couldn’t blame her for the shock. He was still struggling to get used to the idea himself.

After another moment Ann finally looked back at him. "You know, I supposed I should have seen that one coming."

"Well I certainly didn't," Greg said.

Ann gave a little laugh. "With how you are with him? Inviting him into our home as you did?" She shook her head. "No it makes sense now that I'm looking at it. Still, I have to admit that I don't see him being willing to acknowledge..."

"He did," Greg interrupted. That stopped her mid-sentence again and she looked almost more shocked this time. Greg couldn't blame her for that either.

"He did?" she demanded. "When did all this happen?"

Quickly, Greg went through the events of the evening.

“And the first thing he said to me after that was to tell me that there was no way I was going to be telling him what to do,” he ended.

Ann pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture Greg recognised as one of his own. Then she laughed.

"Oh hell. _Of course_ he did. No one who actually belonged to you would be the type to put up with a controlling alpha." She shook her head before slipping her arms around his waist. "You know, there was a time when all of that would have surprised me but after the last few months... Greg, love, when did mysterious government people, drug addict geniuses and intrinsic packmates become a part of our lives?"

Greg chuckled, wrapping his arms around her and breathing in the comforting scent of her. "When I started working with Sherlock apparently. Sorry about that."

"You know what’s really sad about it? At this point, I'm not sure I wouldn't miss hearing about your run ins with shadowy types and the lattest insanity Sherlock had got up to if this ceased being a part of our lives," she said, pressing a light kiss to his lips. "Although, I could deal with less time spent in hospital rooms. Do you think that that may have been the mysterious Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm sure of it," Greg said. "I couldn't figure out just where I'd heard his voice before until after he left. Stupid of me, but I wasn't really thinking straight with Sherlock upset and feeling as though he was being threatened." Greg shook his head. "But that was definitely him. I'd be willing to bet good money that we have him to thank for the private room as well." 

"That's a bet I wouldn't be willing to take,” Ann replied dryly. “What does Sherlock have to say about all of this?"

"Nothing. He's refusing to do anything but study those damn files."

Ann rolled her eyes. "I know you don't like ordering people around but you're going to have to learn to be more forceful with him." She pulled away with another quick kiss and marched back to the room. Greg followed and shut the door behind him as Ann snatched up the bag she had brought.

"The man who was here earlier, what is he to you?" she demanded putting the bag down directly on top of the file Sherlock was studying. He glared at her but she simply stared back, entirely unfazed. "Clothes," she said motioning to the bag. "I thought that you could probably use some new pants and pyjamas at the very least."

"I do not require..." Sherlock began with the brittle haughtiness Greg knew all too well at this point.

"We are pack," Ann snapped, annunciating each word carefully as she cut off his automatic objection. They'd had this fight before over the boots and then the socks and finally the backpack, so she knew exactly what he was going to say. Now, however, she had an unassailable comeback. “There's no such thing as charity between packmates. Now, who was that man here before?"

Greg leaned against the wall by the door amused but also keenly interested in the answer.

Sherlock scowled at the bag in front of him before glancing between Greg and Ann.

"My brother," he admitted with bad grace.

 _That_ surprised both of them.

"That bloke was your _brother_?" Greg demanded.

"Or so Mummy insisted," Sherlock muttered, poking into the bag before him as though expecting it to be packed with explosives rather than pants. "I always preferred to think he had been left on the doorstep before my parents managed to conceive me."

Ann snorted. "And thus the fervent hope of younger siblings the world over," she said, sitting down. Greg couldn't help a twitch of the lips even as he tried to keep a straight face. The idea of little brother Sherlock... He just couldn't wrap his head around it.

"How much older is he?" he asked.

"Seven years," Sherlock grumbled.

"And who exactly was the woman at the station when Jane arrested you?" Greg continued, not willing to back down when Sherlock seemed in the mood to actually answer questions. "Antonia, or whatever her name actually is."

Sherlock shrugged, finally deigning to look into the bag in front of him. "One of his minions."

"He's the one who called me," Greg told him. "He told me where to find you the other night."

"Of course he did," Sherlock snorted. "I knew that as soon as you told me what had happened."

"And you didn't feel the need to tell us this why exactly?" Ann demanded.

Sherlock just gave her a look.

"Why should you care who called you?" he muttered in Greg's direction.

"Why should I...?" It was Greg's turn to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, this man has been invading my business, the yard's private files concerning me and he has my phone number. Something that you can't get easily as the private numbers of police officers are supposed to be confidential. And, as of a couple of weeks ago he has apparently begun invading Bradstreet's privacy just as thoroughly."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's what he does. I did warn you that he was dangerous."

"Yes," Greg conceded. "But you also said he was a government operative out to hire you."

"He is," Sherlock snapped, clearly affronted by the suggestion that he had somehow lied. Then he wilted slightly under Greg's glare. "It's just that he's unfortunately family as well."

When Greg continued to glare Sherlock pushed away both files and bag to glare back.

"You have no idea what it’s like," he snapped. "Mycroft has the kind of power you can't imagine. He can do pretty much whatever he wants, have pretty much whatever he wants. He's inherently evil. And he's always been there, always breathing down my neck. It's not just that he wants to force me into some awful government job where my brain would stagnate. He's..." Sherlock made a frustrated gesture as though at a loss for anything bad enough to say. "If he had his way I'd live in some little box somewhere, a miniature _him_." Sherlock's tone made it clear he could think of no worse fate.

"Mycroft?" Ann asked, latching onto what Greg felt was probably the least important and yet somehow most interesting bit of Sherlock's tirade. She shook her head. "Mycroft and Sherlock. Your parents were strange people."

Sherlock gave her a disgusted look. "Mummy chose them. They're family names." His tone suggested that if his mother had chosen them then there could not _possibly_ be anything wrong with either name.

Greg tried to imagine the kind of mother who could have produced children like these two. His mind came up blank.

"Where are you parents?" Greg asked, deciding wisdom lay with not pursuing the topic of the Holmes brothers' names.

"Dead," Sherlock said, poking into the bag again. "Father died when I was very young and mother when I was in my teens." His attempt to sound utterly indifference to these facts failed miserably.

"And who was your guardian then?" Greg asked, already knowing the answer.

"Mycroft, of course," Sherlock said unhappily.

So, sometime during his teenage years he had lost a mother he’d clearly cared about and been left in the care of a significantly older brother, Greg thought. There were still large gaps between that and Sherlock ending up a homeless drug addict by the age of twenty-five. Still, whatever may or may not have happened between the two brothers in the past, it was clear that Mycroft was trying to help Sherlock at this point. It was just that he didn't seem to go about in a way that made a great deal of sense. But then again, if he was Sherlock's brother he probably was not exactly a model of normalcy either.

As a police officer, Greg had seen plenty of dysfunctional families. This one, however, seemed to need a whole new category.

"But you do have family," Ann said. "You even have family that cares about you. How did you end up on the streets?"

Sherlock said nothing, grabbing the bag Ann had brought and escaping into the closet-like en-suite. Ann folded her arms, looking annoyed and Greg knew she had no intention of allowing this to drop. He thought about asking her not to push but decided against it. So far, Sherlock was answering their questions and he was going to take advantage of this oddly cooperative mood for as long as it lasted.

"Well?" she predictably demanded when Sherlock came back out. Flannel pyjama bottoms and plain, round-necked t-shirt should not have made him look younger than a hospital gown. They did anyway.

Sherlock flopped down onto the bed again and if it had not been for the fine trembling he couldn't quite seem to hide, one would have thought that he had done it entirely for dramatic effect, instead of because the walk to the loo and back had all but exhausted him.

"He thought it would teach me a lesson," Sherlock muttered finally. Then a grim sort of smile appeared, darkly self-satisfied. "He kicked me out after I sold an heirloom watch to pay for cocaine. He thought I'd come running back after a single night on the streets, lesson learned."

Greg rolled his eyes. Mycroft may have all the power anyone could want but he was clearly as given to stupid mistakes as the rest of them. Somehow that was comforting.

And only Sherlock could sound proud of _choosing_ to be homeless.

"How long ago was that?" he asked.

This time the smile grew into a positively triumphant grin. "Almost three years ago," Sherlock answered with immense satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

"Sir?" 

Greg stopped on his way back to Sherlock's room to see Dr. Aali motioning him over to where she stood by the floor's main nurse’s station.

"I received a call from the Mech Clinic regarding Sherlock," she told him when he walked over. "I'm so glad you were able to get him in there. It will make a huge difference in the progress of his recovery to have him monitored by specialists at this point."

For a moment Greg could think of nothing to say and just nodded dumbly. The Mech Clinic was the omega retreat specialising in helping omegas going through withdrawal that Dr. Carmichael had given him information for when Sherlock had first arrived. Greg had called them, of course, but there hadn't been a chance of getting him in. They weren't taking any more new NHS patients until sometime next year and the waiting list for those openings was long already. Greg had asked without much hope how much it would be to have Sherlock there as a private patient. The answer had made him wince.

How on earth...? Then he realised. Holmes, it had to be. Like the private room here, there was no other reasonable explanation. Sherlock might insist that his brother was evil, and it was true that his form of care was decidedly chilly to Greg's mind, but evil he clearly was not. He honestly seemed to want to make sure that Sherlock got the best of care. That had to count for something. Besides, Sherlock had been quite adamant that he didn’t want his brother anywhere near him. So, paying for the best facilities was about all the man _could_ do.

Dr. Aali continued on, apparently unaware that Sherlock having a place at the Mech was news to Greg. "I'll be getting off at six this morning but I'll leave a note for Dr. Carmichael. As the primary physician in charge of Sherlock's care here he'll need to sign off on the transfer. An ambulance will be ready to take him to the Mech at eleven tomorrow morning. Although I have stated that the EMTs must be betas or omegas it will still be best for Sherlock to have a good dose of a strong masker. I'll leave instructions that he is to be given it forty minutes before he leaves so it will be at full effect during his transfer. However, I want you to be aware of this so that if someone is not by with his dose by 10:30 you can ring for a nurse."

While she spoke Greg was able to pull himself together and he held out his hand to the doctor. "That would be great. Thank you for all your help."

She took his hand with an understanding smile. "I'm happy to do whatever I can."

Before Greg could head back to the room, Dr. Aali spoke again. "He has a long road to recovery in front of him. But he clearly also has a good alpha and a supportive pack. That can make all the difference."

"Thanks," Greg replied feeling an odd mixture of pride and embarrassment. It still felt odd to think of Sherlock as pack and he sure as hell didn’t feel like a good alpha. The kid had nearly died only a few days ago. And for all that he was pushing forward as though Sherlock were going to get clean he had no reason to believe that that was the case. He hoped it was the case, prayed it was the case. The fact that Sherlock was still here was promising but the simple fact was that he was still an addict.

As Greg turned the corner to head back to Sherlock's room he saw a young man hesitating outside Sherlock's door. He turned at Greg's approach and Greg reassessed the visitor's age downwards. A boy. Thirteen or fourteen at most. Probably younger. While he was observing he was also being observed and he knew the moment the kid made him as a cop. He turned and ran in the opposite direction, trainers skidding on the linoleum.

It was automatic and unthinking to give chase. The boy threw himself around the corner at the end of the hallway and Greg swung around it after him, his own shoes barely able to keep purchase on the too slick floor. As he did, however, he saw that his pursuit was for nought. A nurse had just stepped off the elevator and was nearly knocked over by the kid skidding into it. He must have hit the button to close the doors as they began to shut immediately and Greg had no chance of stopping him. He slowed to a stop and fielded the nurse's incredulous surprise with a shrug.

He considered the possiblilty that the boy had been an alpha drawn by the scent of early heat but Greg doubted it. For one thing the scent wasn't yet that of heat just the mild indicator that it would start soon. Also it wasn't nearly strong enough yet to extend much beyond the room Sherlock was in. As long as the door was closed, there was absolutely no evidence of it outside that one room. And they had been very careful about keeping the door closed for that very reason.

Besides, Greg reflected as he headed back the way he had come, it was well past visiting hours now. What would he have been doing here in the first place? That and the fact that the way he had been dressed, worn jeans that were clearly too large for him, a hoody far too big for him over what had looked to be a smaller hoody underneath. Trainers that looked like they were held together more by duct tape than fabric... That was more the kind of cloths of someone who lived rough rather than someone who would be visiting friends or family in hospital. Particularly so late at night.

Ann was reading when he finally did make it back to the room and gave him a questioning look, obviously seeing something in his face which spoke of his confusion. He just shook his head.

Sherlock had finally fallen asleep a little while ago and now lay with pages of one of the files spread around him on the bed.

Greg began gathering them up, placing them carefully back in the folder they'd come from. This particular body had not been found until nearly a week after death and had, therefore, been in an advanced state of decomposition. While it clearly didn't bother Sherlock, Greg doubted the nurses would particularly want to see the pictures when they came to check on him. 

It was late and as much as Greg worried about Sherlock, both he and Ann needed sleep.

He cocked a head toward the door and Ann nodded, gathering up her purse, coat and book.

On the way home he explained both about the clinic and the visitor.

"One of Sherlock's contacts?" she asked.

Greg just shrugged. "How would he have known where to find him?"

"Well, I imagine it's not unknown that he was taken away in an ambulance. I doubt that there was exactly an attempt to hide it."

"True," Greg agreed. "But unless they know his full name, or at least his last name, how were they going to find where he was in hospital?"

"Maybe some of them do know his last name," Ann said.

Greg just shrugged. It was possible even though it grated to think that Sherlock would have been willing to share information with his various homeless contacts that he hadn't been willing to share with Greg. Which, he reminded himself, was a damn stupid way to feel.

After a time Ann sighed. "At least that brother of his is useful for something. I'll feel better once Sherlock is in that clinic."

Greg couldn't have agreed more.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supplemental Casting for this and the last couple of chapters:
> 
> Dr. Carmichael ........................ [Tom Wilkinson](https://41.media.tumblr.com/0c8131e5fadde96d55459679657eb4f1/tumblr_ni5sugWqtl1td3ydxo2_400.png)  
> Dr. Aali ................................... [Ayesha Dharker](https://40.media.tumblr.com/8a282b88c8a22f3fd20039ebae9404dd/tumblr_ni5sugWqtl1td3ydxo1_400.png)
> 
> For more supplimental casting and sneak peaks at future chapters please visit me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cleocalliope)

For all that alphas had traditionally been given preferential treatment in the workplace, it was a fact that those who had packs were not always the most reliable of employees. It was only their natural roles as leaders within society that meant they weren't considered unreliable. The fact was, that these days those employers who looked at nothing but productivity actually preferred hiring betas to alphas. Still, though, alphas continued to dominate the most active and prestigious professions and their employers, for the most part, took the occasional interference of pack responsibilities as a matter of course.

In Greg's case, this had never been an issue. With the sole exception of his honeymoon, he had never taken any significant time off and had never — before four days ago — asked for any special leeway due to his pack. This was probably the reason he had managed to get himself put on light duty for a few days due to "a pack emergency" without having to answer too many questions. His DCI had been so surprised by the request and the fact that Greg of all people would even ask such a thing that he had simply allowed it. Of course, the fact that Greg had come straight from hospital the morning after Sherlock's overdose and had looked like hell as a result probably helped as well.

He was not, however, entirely without responsibilities to his job and there were a few things Greg needed to see to the morning of Sherlock's transfer. He headed in early therefore so that he could be back at hospital well before eleven.

He was heading back to his office after consulting on a minor case Jones was handling solo when he checked, seeing someone sitting in his visitor's chair.

No one should have been in his office. He always kept the door locked when he wasn't in there. His office, like the personal office of any alpha, was an extension of his territory and he bristled slightly at the intrusion. As he approached however he nearly laughed. It wasn't that it was actually all that funny to see Mycroft Holmes sitting in his office, his assistant standing beside him — well, it was but not in a laughing way — it was simply the fact that the man had had the gall to enter a police officer's locked office and then calmly wait for said officer to get back. For the first time, Greg could almost believe that he and Sherlock were brothers after all. The bristling irritation was mostly subsumed by amusement.

"You know," he said conversationally as he entered the room, shutting the door behind him, "you could both be arrested for trespassing."

The man raised one supercilious eyebrow at him and there was no response at all from the woman standing at his elbow. "It would never hold up in court," Holmes said smoothly. "Not that it would ever get that far. You've seen how quickly I can get Sherlock out of trouble. Imagine how quickly I could get myself out of a similar predicament; and imagine what having arrested me would do to the future career of any officer who attempted it."

The words were mildly spoken, but gave Greg a momentary shiver nonetheless. Actually, he couldn't imagine what it would do to his career and frankly he didn't want to. He sat down behind his desk, fully aware that his attempt to take the position of power in this encounter had failed miserably.

Like before Holmes smelled of nothing whatsoever except for the faintest hint of some expensive cologne. It wasn't common for anyone other than betas to wear scent but Greg knew better than to imagine that that meant anything here. The woman standing beside him was certainly a beta but her scent was one of the most enticing beta scents he had ever encountered. Had it been that way the first time he had met her and he simply had not noticed? He honestly wasn't sure.

"What can I do for you?" Greg demanded. "I don't have a lot of time this morning."

"Because you wish to be back in time for the transfer," Holmes said nodding. "I entirely agree that it would be best if you were there and so I will not take too much of your time." So saying he motioned to his assistant who reached into the briefcase she held and pulled out a sheaf of documents, handing them across the desk to Greg. With surprise, Greg found himself looking at the documents for formal pack acknowledgement. Glancing quickly through he found Sherlock's signature already on them. Well, what he assumed was Sherlock's signature. He'd never actually seen Sherlock's signature before so he couldn't judge its authenticity. He found himself glancing at Holmes dubiously.

"I assure you that it's perfectly legal, Detective Inspector," Holmes said placidly. "I had my assistant visit Sherlock early this morning to obtain his signature on the documents. I felt that if Sherlock were to go through rehabilitation under your protection it would be best if all the paperwork was appropriately filed beforehand."

Greg set aside the documents and studied his visitor.

“Why are you here?” Greg asked finally.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought we had just covered that.”

“No,” Greg answered, sitting back in his chair and studying the man in front of him. “You’ve given me some paperwork – thank you for that by the way I’ll get it filed immediately – and listed a course of action you want me to take and told me why you wanted me to take it. As it happens I agree with you. But you personally didn’t have to come here for that. You could have sent someone,” he waived toward the assistant, “as you did when Sherlock was arrested. Why come all the way to the yard yourself?”

Holmes regarded him steadily as if waiting for Greg to back down. Greg just looked back. Sherlock had tried to stare him down on multiple occasions. Usually, Greg gave in to keep the peace but he was who and what he was. There was no way in hell he was backing down to this man.

Many alphas used their Command growl and the power of their pheromones to control and dominate those around them. Greg generally didn’t. And he didn’t now.

No growl, no scent. No trappings of social control. He just sat back and allowed the dominant force of personality that could, if necessary, compel compliance from those around him to show through. It was what many forgot about dominance, Greg had found. The use of voice, pheromones, physical presence and all the rest... They were nothing but tools, aids. What made an alpha truly a force to be reckoned with was inside. It was a steady core that couldn't be moved or shaken. Greg was a strong man but it wasn't his body or pheromones that made him so. And now, since he accepting the weight of responsibility for someone who truly was _his_ , he'd never felt stronger. Never felt more secure in who he was as a man, an alpha, a pack leader. He knew that, when it came down to it, there was nothing this man or any other could do to take from him what was his or alter who he was.

So he made no effort to dominate the man in front of him. He didn't have to. All he did was sit quietly and wait. Let Holmes look all he liked. Let him deduce whatever he wanted and draw whatever conclusions he pleased. Greg had no doubt which of them could stare the longest.

After only a minute or so, Holmes glanced away, eyes dropping in a subtle display of submission. It happened a lot sooner than Greg would have expected. This was not a man who could be cowed that easily. The slight smile that quirked the man’s lips as he glanced away told Greg that he’d either passed some test or merely that he’d somehow amused the other man. He honestly couldn't tell.

“I doubted that you’d have time to see to the paperwork yourself today,” Holmes said. “Personally, I’d rather not give Sherlock a chance to change his mind. I’d like to see him safely within a pack before...”

Greg didn’t let him finish.

“Again, _you_ didn’t have to come here for that.” The look he received was enough to tell him that this was not a man used to being interrupted.

“If you would allow me to finished, Detective Inspector?” he said in a deceptively mild voice that didn’t hide his displeasure. Greg had a sudden vision of the man petting a Persian cat. That was all he seemed lacking at this point for him to look a proper Bond villain.

Greg held back smile and motioned for the man to continue. From the brief flash of annoyance in the other man's eyes he was willing to bet he hadn't hidden his smile well enough and Holmes was not pleased at being found amusing.

"As I was saying, I'd rather not give Sherlock the opportunity to change his mind under the present circumstances. However, I do admit to the desire to have the chance to... shall we say size you up. If you are to be my brother's alpha," Greg raised his eyebrows at the 'if', "then I wanted the chance to get a feel for what kind of man you were."

Greg snorted. "And all my reports, evaluations, and confidential tests didn't give you an idea of what kind of man I am?"

"No," Holmes said with a tight-lipped smile. "They did not. They all give only one aspect of your character and all of it filtered through other people's perceptions. When you were merely an associate of Sherlock's that was enough. Now, it is not."

"And you didn't get what you needed last night?" Greg asked mildly.

"No," Holmes said again. "Last night you were protecting an omega in the early stages of heat from a perceived threat. It was immediate. You were, in fact, on the edge of becoming feral. Today you are not."

Greg shook his head in automatic denial. Feral was a state of instinct driven behaviour that could overcome a person — nearly always a member of the breeding genders — when those who belonged to them were in immediate danger. It was something most usually associated with alphas protecting their bondmates or omegas protecting their children. He wanted to argue that he'd been nowhere near going feral but doubted the man before him would believe him. Besides, remembering standing there waiting calmly to find out whether he was going to kill the man in front of him with his bare hands, knowing he would without hesitation... Well, alright. Maybe Holmes had a point. But that didn't mean Greg had to admit it.

"So," Greg asked after a moment. "What do you want to know then?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow in a supercilious manner Greg recognised from Sherlock. He was beginning to see how the man before him could have raised the prickly youth he knew.

"Did Sherlock tell you how he ended up on the streets?" Holmes asked.

Surprised by the apparent non sequitur Greg nodded. "He said, you threw him out after you caught him stealing from you to pay for drugs. You thought a night or two on the streets would scare him straight."

"More or less," Holmes said. "He pawned an antique watch that had been in the family for four generations. There were far more valuable things he could have taken but he took that because he believed that that would bother me more than if he had taken something of little or no familial significance." The man studied the head of his umbrella, twirling it absently. "He could have come home at any time. His room is, in fact, still in the deplorable state he left it. Though the housekeeper did find it necessary to remove one or two of the ongoing experiments and some of the more volatile chemicals."

He looked up then and met Greg's eyes and for a moment he looked terribly tired.

"I actually had him brought home three times, two on other occasions when he... shall we say over-indulged, only to find him gone again as soon as he was physically capable of running."

Greg didn't know what to say. The thought of it, of watching a member of one’s family self-destruct in that manner and be able to do nothing about it... He'd had a taste of it over the last few months, worrying over someone he wasn't yet able to recognise as his. Still...

"I'm sorry," Greg said finally for lack of any other response.

Holmes just gave a small shrug, the exhaustion Greg had seen a moment before gone. "I am telling you this only so you will understand how utterly unprecedented it is that Sherlock has remained in hospital these last several days. That he is apparently intending to go through with your plans for him, at least so far as the next few days go. You will understand my curiosity to know what it is about you that gives you such a hold over Sherlock."

He rose to his feet then and placed a business card on Greg's desk. Picking it up Greg found that it had no name on it, just a number.

"You are free to call me at any time. No matter what Sherlock may say, I do want only what is best for him." He nodded once. "Good day, Detective Inspector. If you file that paperwork before the end of the day I will see that it is expedited."

Greg sat for some few minutes after Mycroft and his assistant left, twirling the card between his fingers. The fact was he had no idea himself what it was that made Sherlock his. What was it that made him listen to Greg, even if only a little, when he'd refused to allow his own brother to put a roof over his head when the alternative was to be homeless? He didn't know.

He'd found himself googling for information on intrinsic packs the night before but learned nothing he didn't already know. There were a hundred theories but little solid data. The bond could not be anticipated, there was no way of knowing where or when it would develop or why it appeared between one alpha and their packmate and not another. In the end, it just was and no one knew why.

Giving up, Greg put the card into his wallet just in case and focused on the paperwork, both pack and work related, that he needed to get done.

Maybe the why didn't matter and all that did matter was what Greg chose to do with what he'd been given.

 

* * *

 

Ann was already with Sherlock when Greg arrived at ten. They were bickering about whether or not Sherlock was going to take the files Bradstreet had brought with him to the clinic.

"You won't even be able to focus enough..." Ann was saying as Greg opened the door.

"How would you know?" Sherlock demanded, sounding for all the world like a petulant three-year-old. "I'm not going to spend three days staring at a wall. Not when there's work I could be doing."

"While you're in heat?" Ann demanded, incredulous. "There is no possible way..."

"Children," Greg said, loudly enough to get both their attention. Sherlock looked affronted and Ann gave Greg a look that clearly told him he'd pay for that later.

"The files..." Ann said, letting it hang.

Greg shrugged. "Let him take them, I doubt it will matter much."

The chances of Sherlock actually being able to work on them was more or less nil. Although if anyone could push heat aside for the lure of a mystery it would be Sherlock. Still, if nothing else it would provide a distraction when he was lucid enough for it and may just keep him from turning on the staff and getting himself thrown out.

Sherlock looked smugly pleased with his victory, even though he was clearly miserable.

Greg had been gone less than nine hours but the scent of Sherlock's heat had intensified during that time to be an almost tangible presence in the air of the room. Sherlock himself looked flushed and seemed to be sweating slightly. He fidgeted restlessly where he sat on the bed. Still too weak from detoxing to do much more than sit, the constant movement of his hands as he arranged and rearranged the pages of the file open before him said clearly that he'd be pacing if he could have.

He'd changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt Ann had bought for him. For once he looked like any other kid, instead of the usual air of sophisticated competence he tried to cultivate. His hair wasn't helping. He kept pushing at the curls that were long enough now to fall into his eyes.

"You need a haircut," Greg observed absently.

Sherlock muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "yes father". Ann rolled her eyes. She dropped into a chair and picked up her book with the air of someone who intends to ignore everyone else in the room as pointedly as possible.

Greg went to get himself coffee.

It was only another fifteen minutes before a nurse arrived with Sherlock's masker. The kid didn't even look up when she came in and gave him the injection. Greg didn't need reminding just how used Sherlock was to the feel of needles puncturing his skin. He'd clearly used small gauge needles and took care to vary his injection sites so that there were few actual marks and those few were mostly faint; barely scars at all. Only a few of the more recent ones were obvious, all in shades of red and pink depending on their progress toward healing.

Greg tried not to look at them and wished Ann had picked up a long-sleeved shirt. The newest ones, the ones that nearly cost Sherlock his life, looked almost black against the kid's too-pale skin.

Over the next forty minutes the scent in the air lost a great deal of its potency, but did nothing to diminish Sherlock's increasing agitation. Greg hoped they'd actually have time to get him to the Mech before his true heat began.

Around ten thirty Greg was called out by one of the nurses to sign the final paperwork for Sherlock's transfer and get last minute instructions from Dr. Carmichael.

A half an hour later, almost at eleven on the dot the ambulance arrived.

Taking an omega in the early stages of heat through a hospital was a great deal more of a production than Greg had anticipated. The part of the floor they were on was for beta and omega patients only. Still, all alpha staff had to be cleared from the area before they started. Escorted by security they were taken to a special patient’s only elevator and instead of going through either the A&E or the public areas they were taken to a private loading area in the back. There two female beta EMTs waiting with an ambulance Greg was assured was specially insulated for this kind of thing. Greg was to ride with Sherlock and Ann was following in the car.

Sherlock had put on his coat but was sweating more than a little by the time they got into the ambulance and chucked it off immediately.

The EMTs had wanted to make him comfortable in the gurney but he insisted on sitting on one of the benches along the side instead.

As soon as he was strapped in, he dug back into the backpack Ann and pressed on him after the snow storm and which Bradstreet had recovered from Sherlock's alcove before anyone made off with it. He pulled out one of the files and began flipping through it again. Greg could tell that he was having trouble concentrating on it but at least it kept him quite.

The ride to the Mech seemed interminable. It only lasted a bit more than an hour but Sherlock's restless agitation seemed to make it last a great deal longer.

It was just before they arrived at the Mech that Sherlock's scent changed. He'd been ramping up toward heat, but when started it was actually rather more sudden than Greg had been expecting. One moment he smelled the same as before and the next Greg could practically _smell_ the lubrication he'd begun to produce.

Luckily, by then they were less than ten minutes from the clinic. Sherlock had given up even pretending to read the file before him and was simply shuffling and reshuffling the papers, squirming in his seat with increasing discomfort. He was sweating heavily by this point, his skin flushed. He kept pulling at his t-shirt as though the soft cotton irritated him. From what little Greg knew about heat, it probably did.

Greg had never shared a heat with an omega and had no omegas in his immediate family or, before Sherlock, in his pack. So, what he knew about heat was only what he remembered from sex ed in school for the most part and what he saw in movies and television. And yes, alright, the occasional porn. Although he doubted that that had any real accuracy to it. He did remember though that an omega's skin became incredibly sensitive in the early stages of true heat. It made them more receptive to an alpha's touch and supposedly made orgasm easier to achieve. The down side was that having anything else against their skin, such as clothing, could become extremely uncomfortable.

"I hate this," Sherlock muttered, pulling once more at the shirt and wincing as he shifted in his seat again. It was the first time he's spoken in more than a half an hour.

"I'm sorry." Greg didn't know what else to say. It was clear that Sherlock was uncomfortable but there was nothing anyone could do until it passed. Usually, an omega without an alpha could be given medications to tone down the heat. Sometimes, they were even given sedatives so they would simply sleep though the worse of it. With Sherlock in the middle of detoxing, however, there was nothing anyone could do.

"You don't know what it's like," Sherlock hissed, starting to scratch at his arm over the scars and freshly healed injection sites. Greg reached over and grabbed his hand to stop him and got a snarl for his trouble. The sound startled the EMTs and the one in the passenger seat turned around to eye Sherlock warily. It wasn't entirely unknown for omegas in heat with no relief to become violent. Greg just held his gaze steadily.

"Do you want to end up with infected wounds?" he asked calmly.

Sherlock jerked his hand out of Greg's but dropped his gaze and didn't start scratching again.

Arrival at the clinic was a relief.

The Mech was surrounded by a high stone wall and a secured gate. It was old and ornate. The clinic had started as a country estate according to the information he'd been given about it and the security was the best money could buy. As a place where omegas went through heat they couldn't be too careful about keeping predatory alphas out. The EMTs radioed in when they arrived and the tall wrought iron gate opened at their approach.

To their right just inside the gate a large modern building stood, looking slightly out of place against the old stone of the walls. This was the facility's main offices and was as far as Greg would be going. While he was immune to Sherlock's scent that most definitely was not the case with any of the other omegas here.

The clinic itself was still out of sight behind a stand of well-grown trees.

The ambulance pulled up outside the offices and the EMT in the back with them opened the door for Greg to get out.

For a moment he stayed, wondering if he should say anything, do anything.

"If any interesting cases turn up I'll try not to solve them before you get out," Greg said finally.

Sherlock snorted. "As if you could solve anything _really_ interesting without me." There was humour in the look he gave Greg though and Greg grinned at him before climbing out. The EMT climbed back in and shut the door. Greg watched as the ambulance continued up the drive to where Sherlock would spend the next several days before turning to the offices to sign whatever needed to be signed and wait for Ann to pick him up.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry for how long it look me to get this chapter done. Three weeks ago CJ, a dear friend of mine, was diagnosed with glioblastoma - a rare and EXTREMELY aggressive form of brain tumour. This week she will be going into hospice. She is in tremendous pain. In three weeks she has lost the ability to walk and now has great difficulty speaking. I've been spending a lot of my time with her husband of 15 years, simply trying to be there for him.
> 
> CJ will be turning 46 this next week. She won't live to see spring.
> 
> For as long as I've known her CJ has made a paper crane a day. She learned how to make them while living in Japan several years ago. Because of the legend that making 1,000 paper cranes can heal you, as soon as she fell ill all her friends started making paper cranes for her. We have made nearly 3,000 and will string them together and deck her hospice room in them. A tangible reminder that she is loved.
> 
> We have also been reaching out to the wider online community asking people to make a crane or two for CJ and post a picture of it with the hashtag #CranesForCJ on Facebook, Tumblr or Twitter. If you have a moment please consider doing so. Her husband, Jim, and I are making sure she knows about the cranes made for her. Directions can be found all over the place. Just google it and you'll find a dozen or more good ones. If you don't have time, that's okay. But please pause to say a little prayer for her and for her husband.
> 
> CJ is a wonderful person. She's always been all bounce and bubbles. Has always had a smile for everyone. She is loved dearly and will be badly missed.
> 
> As things progress my story updates may be a little scattered. Obviously, the entire focus of my energy is with them during this difficult time. I'm sure you understand.

Three days later, a little after Greg had returned from his lunch break, Jones appeared in his office doorway. His expression said it all.

"Where?" Greg asked, heart sinking.

"A condemned building about a mile from the last scene."

The day was warmer than the preceding several weeks, the sky crystal clear and the sun seeming to have some real heat to it at last. According to the weather reports it was only a false spring with more cold weather on the way. There was even the possibility of more snow to replace that which had long since melted. Still, Greg paused to enjoy the feel of the early afternoon sun for a moment before heading into the grime and darkness of the condemned building. Temporary the warmth may be but he was grateful for it nonetheless. The winter had been unusually cold and even a bit of temporary warmth was better than nothing.

Stepping into the dim interior of the building, however, was like heading back into winter.

The redevelopment of this block of flats had been delayed for some time and there was plenty of evidence that the homeless had made good use of the shelter the building provided. Many of the flat doors were long gone and inside were mattresses, blankets, drug paraphernalia and other detritus attesting to its use by London's less fortunate citizens. The smell of unwashed bodies, human waste and rotting garbage was noxious but the scent was one Greg had been growing increasingly accustomed to over the last few months. Most of those who sheltered here had fled before the police arrived but a few still sat in their little domains, either defiantly guarding what little they could claim as their own or simply too far gone to care. Greg ignored them for the moment, simply nodding Donovan and another of his constables in their direction. He was confident his team could deal with the preliminary interviews. Not that he expected they'd get anything out of these people. The homeless weren't the type to talk to cops readily. He could really have used Sherlock at a time like this. He may not appear to be aware of what tack even was but you could say this for him, he got the relevant information out of people.

When he reached the second floor an officer hurried quickly over to him.

"Mind the mess, sir," he said somewhat apologetically, motioning to the vomit on the floor. At least two people had been sick near the door to the stairs, the overpowering stench of it was almost enough to blot out the other smells of the place and turned Greg's stomach. "The witness who found the body and one of the responding officers," the uniform said by way of explanation. "The victim's name was Agnes Liu. She was found by a packmate, one Debbie Freeborn."

Halfway down the hall one of the few flats that still had its door was being guarded by another officer. Not far from him a woman leaned against the wall, her head resting back against the stained and cracked plaster behind her.

"That her?" Greg asked. 

"Yes. No idea where the alpha is at this time. No evidence that this area is anyone's personal or pack territory."

"Thanks." Nodding to Jones for him to get the rest of the necessary information from the officer, Greg headed toward the witness.

The woman looked up as Greg approached, eyeing him with dull wariness. She looked to be on the unpopular side of forty with the worn look of someone who had not had an easy life. She had clearly done her best to repair the damage to her heavily made up eyes but the evidence of tears was clear nonetheless. Her scent said she was an omega but with an underlying chemical tang that prolonged drug use could sometimes cause. The ankle breaker heels and a certain cut and tightness of her clothes suggested that she was a pro. He was reminded for a moment of Felicity, the wry amusement that had been there even in her mug shots giving her a life this woman lacked. Perhaps she’d never had it or perhaps the hardness of her life had beaten it out of her as it had failed to do in the other omega.

"Debbie Freeborn?" he asked.

She just nodded and looked back toward the guarded door.

"I'm DI Lestrade," he told her, pulling out his ID. It was ignored so he put it away and pulled out his notebook instead. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Debbie shrugged, everything about her suggesting someone too worn down to care about much of anything anymore. "I came to check on Agnes when I found out she was alone here last night. Thought I'd see if I could get her to crash on someone's floor or something for a bit. I was too late." Her voice cracked a little on the last sentence which dropped to little more than a whisper, showing she cared far more than she wanted him to know. She took a breath before shaking her head, pushing ineffectually at the strands of limp brown hair that had escaped from her bun to hang around her face.

"She wasn't usually alone here then?" Greg asked.

"No."

Greg waited for a moment before pushing. "Who usually stayed with her?"

Debbie shrugged again. "Several of the girls come and go here. It's reasonably warm and reasonably safe." 

“At least we thought it was,” she added, the bitterness thick in her tone.

"Other girls?" Getting information out of this woman was a little like pulling teeth, but Greg had enormous reserves of patience from years of working with reluctant witnesses and a few months of working with Sherlock.

"Our pack," Debbie said reluctantly.

"Are you all female?" Greg asked. It was unusual to have a pack that was made up of only one sex or but neither was it entirely unheard of.

"No," Debbie answered. "But mostly."

"Your alpha?"

"Jo Rossie." She gave him an address in a set of council flats in a neighbourhood only slightly better than this one. It was a better one though and Greg felt an instinctive disgust for an alpha who had a flat which would at least include heating and a door that locked while an omega under his protection was homeless and at risk across town.

"Told her she should have stayed there, stalker or no stalker," she muttered to herself.

"Stalker?" Greg demanded. All the victims had been stalked beforehand, of that they were certain. But this was the first he'd heard of one knowing she was being stalked.

Debbie sighed. "Agnes wanted off the streets, she wanted... better. For the last, God almost two months, she'd been living at this sort of shelter. A kind of halfway house. They'd been helping her try to get clean and were going to help her get some education."

"When did she leave?"

"Two days ago." For the first time since the interview began Debbie looked at him instead of at the flat door behind which her packmate lay dead. "She said someone there was stalking her. I don't know much about it but that. Just that she was freaked out enough to think maybe she'd been wrong to try to leave the pack. That maybe she'd be safer back with us." Debbie snorted and looked away back toward the flat again. "I told her not to but she didn't listen."

There was little more to get from Debbie beside the names of the rest of her pack and of the shelter Agnes had fled from.

There was nothing for it at that point but to see what was left of Agnes Liu.

The main room of the flat was similar to the others Greg had passed on his way through the building. There were four mattresses, all stained and old. There were clear signs of drug use, enough to make Greg glad that Sherlock was safely tucked away at the clinic after all. A forensic technician was photographing the mess prior to collection but it was clear that the main focus of activity was in what would once have been the larger of two bedrooms.

The copper scent of blood here was enough to eclipse all other smells.

A crimson lake dominated the room and liberally splattered the two mattresses and the scatter of other belongings. The smears of blood showed where those mattresses and belonging has been pushed back to the edges of the space after the murder as the killer cleared a space in the centre of the room. The body lay naked and spread eagled in the middle of the floor, her torso opened from diagram to crotch, the flesh carefully pealed back and the organs removed.

Greg had been forced to do a great deal of studying of human anatomy lately and no longer needed anyone to tell him that while the reproductive organs were missing, all else was present and accounted for.

This time the killer had carefully placed the remaining organs against the sides of the body as though they were snuggled up to the place they'd come from. The intestines, on other hand, had been stretched out and laid out around the body and organs in an almost perfect circle. The outstretched tips of fingers and toes just touched the edges of the circle, making an x in the centre.

Greg was struck by a sudden visceral fear. This was the first time he'd seen the killer's work since learning that someone he cared about, someone who belonged to him, was a potential target and he had to remind himself that Sherlock was safe and far away from this lunatic's grasp. But God, how easy a target would Sherlock have been when high? The sudden image of that horrible cubbyhole where he and Bradstreet had found Sherlock unconscious and vulnerable came back to him. Only this time it was to find _this_ inside. Sherlock spread out and cut open and dead.

He shook off both the image and the fear, though it settled somewhere deep inside where he knew it would come back to him in nightmares. Here and now, he had a job to do and Agnes deserved nothing less than his undivided attention.

"It took some time to do this," Jones remarked, looking grey despite all he'd seen in his long career.

"He felt safe enough here to take his time," Greg answered. "At least they're dead by the time he does this to them."

"Thank God for small mercies," one of the tech muttered from where he was carefully documenting the scene.

 

* * *

 

While it was a surprise to receive a call from the Mech Clinic late that afternoon, it wasn't actually all that much of a shock. Sherlock, it seemed, was demanding to see him and making enough of a nuisance of himself with that demand that the clinic was calling Greg to come handle the the situation. There was a distinct feeling of 'he's yours, you deal with him'.

Though it had only been two days, the worst of Sherlock's heat was over. He would still going through the last of his oestrus cycle and under normal circumstances it would have been at least another day before he would have been able to receive visitors. But then with Sherlock no circumstances were ever entirely normal.

Greg's first instinct was to ignore Sherlock and focus on the case. Still, he had a responsibility here. So, he went vowing to himself that if Sherlock was just causing problems because he was bored Greg would make him _very_ sorry. How he wasn’t sure yet but he’d figure out something.

Arriving again outside the incongruously modern building of the clinic's main offices, Greg was met by a nurse who took him to one of the visiting rooms. She was polite enough but there was a look he'd come to recognise from Sherlock's stay in hospital. Part frustration with having to deal with Sherlock at all and part pity for the impossible omega's alpha.

The visiting room was surprisingly large and furnished as an old fashion sitting room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the stately gardens of the old estate. Sherlock prowled the space as if the cosy room with its plush chairs and wood panelling were the most sadistic of prisons.

He wore a hospital robe over a pair of the pyjama bottoms and one of the loose t-shirts Ann had bought him. Though the worst of his heat was clearly over, the lingering scent of it still clung to him. From what Greg knew of heats the sexual need would have diminished by this point but wouldn't be entirely gone, just manageable. This was what was often referred to as the lazy part of the heat cycle, when the worst of the need driving the participants had eased and they could take the time to enjoy themselves.

Sherlock clearly wasn't enjoying anything at the moment.

When Greg entered he saw that Sherlock had pushed up the left sleeve of his robe and was absently, but no less industriously, scratching at his arm. The skin of the arm was red from repeated scratching, scabs having formed in one or two places where he'd scratched too hard before. He'd just scratched one of those off and the spots of blood were bright against Sherlock's skin.

Greg was across the room before he had time to think about it, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and trying to get a better look at the arm. Sherlock froze for a moment before jerking back as though struck.

"Don't you dare," he almost snarled.

It was only then that Greg realised what he'd done. He hadn't noticed the small release of pheromones any more than he'd realised that he'd growled. Not a Command exactly. He hadn't ordered anything. It had, however, been a clear warning, alpha to herlot — or a person under that alpha's protection and authority. It had been a warning to stop, to hold still, to submit.

Instinct told Greg to hold on and to keep holding on until he'd got a good look at Sherlock's arm. It was unexpectedly difficult to let go and step back, holding his hands up to show he wasn't going to grab him again.

"Okay," Greg said in what he hoped was a calming tone. "Just let me..."

"I _knew_ this was a mistake," Sherlock interrupted, spinning away and resuming his pacing. He turned back and glared at Greg. "I don't care what the law says, I don't belong to you."

The words struck Greg like a blow to the gut. They were dangerously close to repudiation, the rejection of an alpha by a pack member, the dissolving of the bond between them. Except that only pack relationships based on mutual agreement could be dissolved. An intrinsic bond couldn't be repudiated. That knowledge was all that was keeping an unfamiliar panic from taking definite root. Still, it hurt far more than he would have guessed.

"You were harming yourself..." Greg began, trying to diffuse the situation.

"What I do to myself is my own damn business," Sherlock answered.

Greg would put up with a great deal, far more than most alphas, to accommodate Sherlock's peculiar sensibilities and need for independence. That, however, was too far, even for him.

"No, it isn't," Greg said sharply. "It's very much my business."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Greg cut him off.

"You Acknowledged me. Like it or not, I'm your alpha now and your wellbeing _is_ therefore _my_ responsibility," he told him firmly. "I'm not going to try to run your life. I wouldn't want to run your life even if I thought I could. And I know damn well I couldn't. But the fact is that you'd be dead right now if Jane and I hadn't come to find you. We performed CPR for nearly twenty minutes on you while we waited for the damn ambulance. It was _my_ breath that kept your damn lungs moving. So don't you _dare_ say it's none of my business. I fought to save your life and I'm sure as hell not going to stand here and do nothing while you cause yourself more harm."

Something in Greg's expression made Sherlock look away.

"I don't need a nursemaid," he muttered, sounding less angry and more petulant now. "I won’t be treated like a child."

"Then stop acting like one."

Sherlock glared at him but turned away again, marching over to stare out the window with his arms crossed like the angry child he claimed he wasn't.

For a moment, Greg allowed the silence to stand. It seemed to ring around them with the echoes of words Greg hadn't even realised he'd had stored up inside him until they were out. There was a heretofore unacknowledged part of him that was still angry over what Sherlock had done and desperately frightened that next time he'd be too late. If he had to fight Sherlock to keep the kid safe then that was what he'd do.

Finally, Greg picked up the bag he'd dropped when he'd jumped forward to see Sherlock's arm. He placed it on a table well within Sherlock's peripheral vision.

"Here's some clean pants and socks Ann picked up for you and I brought a couple more cold case files to keep you occupied."

Sherlock gave a soft snort. "Your wife is determined to dress me like some university student. There were jeans in the last bag of cloths and a t-shirt with some kind of logo on it. A band or something from the look of it."

Greg smiled slightly, gratefully allowing the anger of moments before to drain away. "Only you would be unaware of who Metallica is,” he said, shaking his head before continuing, “Maybe she's hoping you'll take the hint.”

"Good God, no," Sherlock said with a mock shudder. "Uni was unbearably dull."

Suddenly, Greg wanted to ask a million questions. What school had Sherlock gone to, what had he been reading for, how long had he attended? This, unfortunately, wasn't the time or the place. Greg had to get back to the station as soon as he could manage it. At this point his first priority was to find out what had Sherlock so riled up and get him calmed down enough to not cause too much in the way of problems for the two remaining days he had here.

Greg perched on the arm of a chair and folded his arms. "So what was so damn important that you couldn't wait for a couple of days?"

Sherlock's entire demeanour changed in a moment, his face lighting up. He began to pace again but this time the movements seemed to come from a simple inability to sit still rather than the caged animal prowling of before.

"I know what they had in common," he said excitedly.

Greg didn't bother with asking what Sherlock was talking about.

"Beyond being homeless female omegas, you mean?" Greg couldn't stop himself from saying. He wasn't going to admit, even to himself just how good it was to see Sherlock. It wasn't that Greg didn't think that the clinic was a safe place but not being there to protect him when he _knew_ the omega was vulnerable to attack... Here and now he could admit to himself that that had been harder than he'd expected.

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, of course, other than that. Don't be pedestrian." He said the last word as if it were the worst insult known to man and Greg didn’t bother to repress a grin.

"I kept wondering why he chose them," Sherlock said, resuming his pacing. "Of all the omegas on the streets why the three of them?"

The urge to laugh faded. God, he'd forgotten Sherlock wouldn't know yet.

His expression, whatever it was, gave him away.

Sherlock stilled mid pace. "There's been a fourth," he said with absolute certainty.

Greg nodded.

"When? Where? Dear God, _why_ did I have to be stuck in here when he struck again? Your so-called forensics team will have destroyed all the evidence..." Sherlock shook his head. "Tell me everything."

Greg did, falling naturally into the clipped, clinical tones of a police report. Sherlock frowned, his eyes closed as he absorbed the information, his hands pressed together and held near his lips as if he were praying.

"What about this stalker?" he asked as Greg finished.

"I was going to go to the shelter and find out about that right away but I had a call that _someone_ couldn't wait two days to talk to me."

Sherlock snorted but didn't apologise. He opened his mouth to speak but Greg decided to direct him before he went off on some kind of tangent about how Greg should have known all he needed to know about Agnes' stalker by the way Debbie had told him or the name of the shelter she'd been living in.

"Does this new victim fit that pattern you came up with?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said sounding pleased. "She fits it perfectly."

"And that pattern _is_?" Greg asked when Sherlock continued to stand there, eyes closed lost in whatever train of thought he was currently riding.

"They were all omegas that didn't conform to society's expectations," Sherlock said. "And it wasn't just that they failed to do as they should. They did the opposite. The first two were loners, entirely on their own. Even in the 21st century that's not alright, not acceptable. No omega is allowed to be a loner." There was bitterness in his tone as he said it. "Also, they both used their permutation to make money. No one seems to like prostitutes but you know as well as I do that omega prostitutes are particularly looked down upon."

Greg nodded, it was true. There was a certain disgust people had for omegas who sold their bodies that went beyond the way society generally looked down on whores. "But Sophie wasn’t a prostitute and both she and Agnes had packs," he said.

"They still weren't as they should be," Sherlock said finally opening his eyes to spear Greg with one of his intense looks. "Sophie was the brains of that operation, everyone knew it. Shaun may have been the alpha but he was the follower, not the leader. He did as she told him to. It was she that ran that pack and none of them even pretended otherwise. She gave the orders directly, not through Shaun."

Greg's brows rose. That _was_ unusual. While it wasn't as uncommon as people liked to think for the omega to be the leader in a bonded pair, it was rare for the pack to not at least give lip service to the leadership of the alpha.

"And this new one," Sherlock continued. "She was also a prostitute as well as an addict. What's more she attempted to leave her pack, she turned her back on her alpha's control. That's not just socially unacceptable, it's shocking. Regardless of the alpha she should not have turned away without another alpha ready and able to take her in.” He stopped and eyed Greg. “Was there?"

Greg shook his head. "Not that anyone knows about."

Sherlock nodded looking annoyed. "I need to get out there."

"Like hell," Greg said, the idea of Sherlock where this lunatic could get to him turned Greg's insides to ice. "You want to talk about an omega who doesn't conform to society's expectations? One that directly goes against them?"

"I'm not female," Sherlock snorted as though that put an end to the conversation.

"Which means nothing," Greg argued. "It's not that unusual for serial killers to switch between sexes in order to continue killing within the same permutation. It's particularly true in the case of those killing omegas and you know it. Hell the third ripper victim was a male omega."

"I can take care of myself," Sherlock said petulantly.

"Like you did earlier this week?" Greg demanded, but went on before Sherlock could argue. "Besides, everything we know about both Felicity and Sophie says that they could as well. Didn't stop this guy from killing them."

"I need to see that crime scene," Sherlock said, clearly deciding to change tack. 

"I'll bring you the full report as soon as I have it completed," Greg said. "And depending on how you're doing in a couple of days when you are discharged from here maybe we'll _both_ go."

Sherlock looked less than pleased but dove into the bag Greg had brought without saying any more.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I've upped the number of total chapters expected. This story just seems to keep expanding on me.
> 
> The whole rest of this story is dedicated to my incomparable beta, brainstorming partner, and cheerleader - [Coian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coian/pseuds/coian). Without whom this story would have been shorter and a hell of a lot less interesting, not to mention worse spelled and decidedly harder to follow.

Agnes Liu had been twenty-two years old, making her neither the youngest nor the oldest of the victims. She had been arrested three times, twice for prostitution and once for possession. After her third arrest a social worker for the court had secured her a place at Abbott House, a shelter where she had been part of their residential recovery program for her addiction to methamphetamines. She had been there for nearly two months and had been making excellent progress until she'd simply packed her things and walked out two days before.

Now she was dead with no chance at the life she'd wanted for herself, a life free of drugs and off the streets.

Her social worker was an overwhelmed woman who, though upset by Agnes' death and the manner of it, was simply too overworked to know much more than the fact that she'd left Abbott house without notifying anyone about it.

So it was to Abbott House Greg headed the next morning, hoping to find someone who knew more about her stalker. At first he was met with little more than blank stares and the information that Agnes had left and they didn't know where she was. The director was out of town and without his authorisation they couldn't and wouldn't say any more. Although Greg got the feeling that few of them knew anything much anyway.

Finally, it was suggested that the nurse who had treated her was there that morning and Greg might try talking to him.

The clinic in the shelter was little more than a single room over-crowded with an exam table, a chair, and the other standard equipment of any doctor's office. The door to it was open but Greg could see that the nurse had someone in with him when he arrived. So he waited just out of earshot for the patient to leave. The elderly woman finally hobbled out, her slightly unfocused gaze travelling over Greg without apparently seeing him.

The nurse appeared in the doorway and seemed startled to see Greg there. A beta who was probably in his thirties, he was no more than middle height and had the slightly harassed look that many of those who worked in underfunded institutions had. Then his eyes narrowed and Greg knew the moment he'd been made as a cop.

He held out his warrant card as he came over.

"DI Greg Lestrade," he said. "Can I ask you a few questions?"

The man looked at the warrant card for a moment as though trying to figure out how to tell if it was fake or not before shrugging.

"Come on in," he said waving Greg into the clinic. This time, he shut the door behind him. "Who did what?" he asked with a slightly resigned smile as he motioned for Greg to take the room's only chair. He himself hopped up on the examination table, his expression reflecting good-humoured amusement, chagrin and weariness.

"You have a lot of trouble like that here?" Greg asked, taking the offered seat.

The nurse shrugged. "Not as much as you might think but the place is still full of homeless drug addicts."

Greg nodded before taking out his notebook. "Your name?"

"Oh," the man seemed a bit flustered. "Sorry about that. Alex Cartwright."

"And did you treat someone staying here by the name of Agnes Liu?"

"Agnes?" That clearly surprised him. "Sure. She left though. What was it... two, three days ago?"

"And before that?" Greg asked.

“Sure, I treated her,” he answered. “She was here for a couple of months. What's going on? Is she in some kind of trouble?"

Greg ignored the question for the moment. "Do you know why she left the shelter?"

"Well..." Alex frowned, looking uncomfortable for the first time. "Look, I know you have a job to do and all but there's still such a thing as patient/doctor confidentiality. I know I'm only a nurse but it still applies. I don't think I can break that without like a court order or subpoena or whatever."

Perfect, Greg thought. His gut told him that here was finally someone who knew something.

"Agnes Liu was found dead yesterday morning," Greg told him and watched shock cross the man's features.

Alex said nothing for a moment before shaking his head. "Just... hold on a moment."

He got down off the examination table and walked the two steps to the tiny sink. Grabbing a paper cup from a dispenser he poured himself some water and drank it down before turning back.

"Okay…" he said in a careful tone. "I know that… I heard on the news that there had been another one of those ripper-esque killings yesterday."

He let the statement hang between them. When Greg nodded he shut his eyes.

"Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ."

He tossed the paper cup into the trash before getting slowly back up on the exam table again. He rested his elbows on his knees, staring blankly down at the floor.

"How well did you know Miss Liu?" Greg asked after he judged the man had sufficiently collected himself to answer.

"I don't know," Alex said softly. "I couldn't say I know her…” he broke off ans swallowed. “ _knew_ her well exactly. I was helping to monitor her as she went through withdrawal. I saw her at least every week. We didn't talk about much other than her treatment though. I don't know who her friends were or anything like that. But... but I think I got a sense of her as person, if you understand me. She was... sweet. She always tried to have a smile for you even when she felt like crap, you know?"

"Do you know why she left the shelter?" When Alex failed to answer Greg pressed. "I know you have to protect the privacy of your patients..."

"No," Alex cut him off. "I mean, yes I do. But... she's dead. There's not a whole lot more I can do for her, except maybe tell you whatever I can." He looked up at Greg with a look that was both sad and accepting. "She's your responsibility now, I guess."

"She is," Greg agreed.

Alex took a deep breath and straightened up. "Right," he said. "Well, about three weeks ago I noticed that she was really jumpy, always looking over her shoulder. Paranoia is often part of the withdrawal symptoms from meth... Wait, did you know she was dealing with an addiction to meth?"

"Yeah, I already knew about that," Greg said reassuringly.

"Right," Alex said before staring off at the wall across form him. "Good. Well, she was starting to behave in paranoid manner and that had me worried. She was already three weeks into withdrawal at that point. You don't usually get paranoia that late and she hadn't exhibited any signs of it before then. Still, that kind of thing happens sometimes. I asked her about it and she said that someone had been in her room over the last couple of days. She said she could tell because things weren't quite where she'd left them. Like someone had been going through her stuff but hadn't put things back exactly where they had been before." Alex shook his head and looked sadly at Greg. "I didn't believe her. I thought it was just part of the withdrawal."

Greg nodded his understanding.

"Then it kept happening." Alex shrugged. "She started doing things like running string from her door handle to things or putting a matchstick in between her door and the wall. One day she put flower all over the floor of the room to show us that this was really happening and not something she was making up, not part of the withdrawal. It became pretty clear that someone _was_ getting in. She was starting to freak out about it. We did what we could, she even talked to the director about what could be done but the fact was no one knew who was doing it and it didn't seem to be happening to anyone else."

"You never thought to call the police?" Greg asked.

"That kind of trouble we don't need around here." At Greg's look, Alex sighed. "Look a lot of the people here, they have histories. They've been through the system before. We start bringing the cops in and some of them might not stay. These are people who have a real chance if they're willing to work at it. The last thing we want to do is do anything to drive them away." He stopped and slumped forward again, resting his head in his hands. "Oh Christ. So instead we let someone drive Agnes away," he said softly. "And now she's dead because of it."

"Hindsight is always 20/20," Greg said, feeling for the guy. "You couldn't have known this would happen."

"I know," Alex sighed. “Doesn’t make her any less dead though.”

"Did you ever find out who was responsible?" Greg asked.

"No," Alex muttered, frustration clear in his tone and face as he looked up again. "That's why she left. I saw her just the day before. I told her not to go, told her to wait it out just a little longer and we'd figure this out... But anyway. That's all I know really."

"Could just anyone have got access to her room?"

"That's the thing," Alex said. "No they couldn't. Whoever it was had to have been staying here too. Or at least visiting often enough to not seem out of place to the staff. But Abbott House runs so many programs that people are in and out all the time and all the break-ins happened during the day when there were people all over the place. Still, if someone had been going back into the residential area a lot who didn't belong there you’d think _someone_ would have noticed."

"Did anyone leave just after her? Anyone in particular who left after Agnes but before she died?"

Alex bit his lip seeming to think hard. "I don't..." He stopped then and Greg saw his eyes widen as if he'd thought of something. After a moment he looked back at Greg, his gaze suddenly focused in a way it hadn't been before. "Look, I... I'm fine with talking to you about Agnes, okay. But you have to understand, my other patients... that's different. I don't think I could say anymore here without some kind of official order something. The director’s permission at the very least."

The man had clearly thought of something and just as clearly _wanted_ to tell Greg what it was.

"Get a warrant," Alex said earnestly. "The director isn't going to do anything unless he has all the legal ducks in a row, you know?"

Greg hesitated. "Even a hint?" he asked, not pretending he wasn't aware of just how badly the man before him wanted to give in.

But Alex shook his head.

"Get the warrant, Detective Inspector."

 

* * *

 

The day after Sherlock had been transferred to the Mech Clinic, Greg had arrived at his office to find a large envelope on his desk. Inside was the information on three rehab clinics in and around London that could handle someone like Sherlock. Well, they could handle an omega with a severe drug addiction who had recently overdosed. Whether they could handle _this particular_ omega was another question entirely. 

All three where private, exclusive, didn't generally take NHS patients and were _way_ the hell out of his price range.

Greg didn't have to wonder where the information had come from any more than he had to wonder who would be footing the bill for any centre he choose. Sherlock could say what he liked about his brother but Greg was starting to like him. He was odd as hell, sure. On the other hand, he _was_ Sherlock's brother and so Greg wouldn't have expected him to be normal. He certainly didn't show his concern for his brother's welfare in anything like a conventional manner. Nonetheless, he obviously was concerned and was doing what he could, or at the very least what Sherlock would allow, to ensure that his brother got the help he needed.

The problem was that Greg was the one who was clearly expected to choose one of these facilities and somehow get Sherlock there. All attempts to discuss the possibility of rehab while Sherlock was still in hospital had been thoroughly ignored by the addict himself. Although, Greg did take heart from the fact that Sherlock hadn’t actually said he _wouldn’t_ go into rehab. It seemed likely, in his opinion, that if Sherlock was dead set against it he would have said so.

Over the last several days, Greg and Ann had spent several dinners discussing the pros and cons of various courses of action. Eventually, it was Ann who had decided which facility looked the best to her and had called them herself.

It turned out that Colwith Rehabilitation Centre had already been contacted about the possibility of having Sherlock at their facility and had a room waiting for him. All they needed was confirmation that Sherlock would indeed be coming to stay with them. Everything else had been taken care of.

After getting off the phone with them Ann couldn't seem to stop laughing for nearly twenty minutes. Greg hadn't thought it was that funny really but what could you do. With no way to get a hold of Sherlock while in the Mech — they really needed to think about investing in a mobile for him — Greg decided in the end that he'd just take Sherlock straight from the Mech to Colwith and see what happened.

So, two days after Agnes' death Greg drove through the gates of the Mech for the last time. At least, he fervently hoped it was the last time.

Sherlock was already ready to go and was standing outside the front doors of the administration building arguing loudly with a nurse who felt he should be waiting in one of the visiting rooms so that the doctor could discuss things with his alpha before he was discharged.

Greg snorted. This woman clearly hadn't run across Sherlock before during his stay here or she would have known better.

Seeing Greg, Sherlock picked up his now rather over-full backpack and headed over toward the car.

"If you'd taken any longer I was going to call a cab," he muttered petulantly. "Let's get out of here."

"Good luck getting anywhere without the keys," Greg said pleasantly, jingling said keys in his hand. "I'm talking to the doctor first."

Sherlock scowled. "She doesn't have anything worth saying."

Greg just shrugged and headed into the offices.

The doctor who was waiting to speak to him had more to say about Sherlock's uncooperative attitude than about anything else. The pamphlets she gave him on withdrawal were better made and had more glossy pictures than those given to him in hospital. However, they didn't contain much in the way of new information. There were one or two alarmist ones about the special dangers of addiction in omegas, but that didn't seem to be anything more than the usual blathering by conservatives upset by the idea of omegas being anything other than baby factories.

When he got back to the car he found a disgruntled Sherlock already sitting in the passenger's seat, apparently texting someone — on Greg's phone.

"Hey," Greg objected, snatching it back as he climbed in. "Who the hell are you texting?"

"Bradstreet," Sherlock said. "I need to find out more about one of the cases you brought me and since you're here instead of at the yard, I thought she'd be better able to get at the information I need than you would at this point."

"She's working on her own cases, Sherlock," Greg sighed. "She doesn't have time to do your research for you."

"Fine," Sherlock answered. "Then let's head to the yard."

Greg didn't answer. He just tossed the pamphlets on the evils of addiction in omegas onto Sherlock's lap before starting the car.

"You really can't be serious."

"You aren't worried about the fact that some of the drugs may linger in your ovaries and hurt your future children?" Greg asked sweetly.

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, of course. Because children are what exactly what I'm worried about. Right up there with finding a nice alpha to slave over a stove for."

Greg laughed. "If you were slaving over a stove I'd be scared of what came off of it."

He glanced at Sherlock who gave him a decidedly evil grin. "I think that would be wise."

Giving in Greg tossed his phone back at Sherlock.

"Just make sure Jane realises that it's you demanding things of her and not me, okay?"

"Of course," Sherlock muttered. "She wouldn't give me the right information if she thought I was you."

Greg had no idea why that was, but didn't bother asking.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until they were actually pulling up outside of the Colwith Rehabilitation Centre that Sherlock bothered to look up from his incessant use of the phone. When he wasn't involved in a complicated discussion/argument with Bradstreet he was using up Greg's data for the month at an alarming rate. Perhaps he should have gone with the unlimited plan Ann had suggested after all. 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the building as Greg slowed before it and then narrowed farther as they drove around the back of the building to the parking area. He eyed the gracious Georgian façade as though it were a snake he expected to bite him.

"Did Mycroft pick this place?" he demanded suspiciously. It was interesting that he didn't bother to ask where they were or why. But then at this point Greg supposed that it would take a lot less than Sherlock's deductive abilities to figure it out.

"No," Greg answered parking the car and turning it off. "Ann did."

Sherlock looked slightly startled by that information as though the idea of Ann having chosen a rehabilitation facility for him was strange. Although, Greg reflected, before this week Greg would have thought it strange himself.

"You'll have a room to yourself," Greg told him. "And since you're still in the city, after the first week you can actually go places and do things as long as there's no evidence that you're using and you’re back by curfew."

"And what am I supposed to do with myself cooped up in there for a _week_?" Sherlock asked, sounding only slightly mollified.

"Come see," Greg said.

The inside of the Colwith had kept much of the original building and Greg suspected that it was probably a protected structure. While looking through the information on it Ann had complained that it was more luxurious than the hotel where they'd spent their honeymoon. She'd stopped complaining when she saw the cost. Although her eyes bulged a bit.

The man at the reception desk was dressed in a very nice suit and Greg couldn’t help reflecting on the difference between the Colwith and Abbott House. When the man said that Ann had already been by to deliver Sherlock's things Sherlock gave Greg a suspicious glance. Greg just smiled at him and motioned for him to follow the man in the suit who was telling them about the spa facilities available on site, the group therapy, meal times, and so on.

Sherlock's room was on the third floor and he could see over the smaller buildings across the street to the river just beyond. Decorated in greys and browns it was mostly dominated by a large bed. By the widows a couple of fairly comfortable looking chairs sat with a little table between them and opposite the bed was a desk with a bookshelf next to it. The door to the en suite stood open to show the gracious amenities in there as well.

The desk was what caught Sherlock's attention. Placed before one of the windows it was a large wooden affair that looked in-keeping with the old-fashion feel of the place. This one, however, had a _very_ thick stack of police files on it. A map of London had been tacked to the wall over it and on the bookshelf alongside the books on recovery and a few of the current best-sellers put there by the facility, Ann had placed reference books on crime, criminology and forensics.

Walking over Sherlock picked up the note which sat atop the stack of files.

 _I dare you to solve this lot in a week.  
       - Ann_

Sherlock looked at Greg who only grinned at him before throwing back his head and laughing.

"Tell your wife, she's on, Lestrade."


	15. Chapter 15

After seeing Sherlock safely installed in the Colwith, Greg arrived at the yard to find Jones waiting for him with the warrant they needed for the information from Abbott House. 

Arriving, he and Jones found an older beta woman behind the reception desk. Greg handed her the warrant and began to explain why they were there but was cut off.

"The director called me," she said, in a bored tone. "Apparently that nurse who works here sometimes let him know that you would be getting a warrant for our records. He told me to copy all the information we had together on Agnes Liu and anyone else who was here at the time. There is it," she said pointing to two large cardboard boxes sitting on the floor.

"Do you know about the trouble she had?" Greg asked.

"Yes," the woman answered, still sounding entirely uninterested. "Complained more than once about someone getting into her room and messing with her things. I don't know if it was true or not." She gave a slightly sour look. "Addicts aren't the most reliable of people. She wasn't the first to think someone was after them while detoxing."

"The fact that she was murdered would seem to lend some credence to her assertion," Jones said, mildly.

The sour look on the woman's face didn't alter. "Look that's all I know about any of this. There's the information. Unless you need some other files accessed, I can't help you."

Greg barely suppressed the desire to roll his eyes. "Is Alex Cartwright here?" he asked.

"No," she said sharply. "He's only here three mornings a week."

"And the rest of the time?"

"How should I know?"

Greg and Jones exchanged a look as they left, each carrying a box.

"Nice woman, that," Jones commented. "It's wonderful how she cares so much for the people in the shelter."

"And her fellow employees," Greg added, finally giving in to the urge to roll his eyes.

It didn't take long for Greg to find out where else Alex Cartwright worked. He rotated between two shelters and helping with one of the mobile clinics. Today was one of the days he was out in the truck which served as surgery for many of the city's homeless. Greg left a message with the shelter the mobile clinic was run from Alex to call him when he got back.

Jones had already laid out the files in the conference room when Greg joined them. It took Greg, Jones, Donovan and another two officers the rest of the day to go through it all.

Agnes' file chronicled her complaints of intrusions into her room. At first, little attention was paid but as the weeks progressed the staff seemed to take her claims more seriously. However, they couldn't seem to figure out who was responsible. Her door had a decent lock as all the doors for the resident patients did and Agnes was meticulous about keeping hers locked. There was no obvious sign of a break in and the door was always found locked when she returned to it. Unfortunately, as one volunteer commented on one of the reports, many either staying in Abbott House or there regularly as out-patients had a history of criminal actively, including breaking and entering. The locks were decent but not fantastic and there was no reason someone with sufficient knowledge wouldn't be able to pick one.

The records of the others who were staying there or regularly in and out during the time period provided more interesting reading, but there were a great many to go through. Cross-referencing them with their own database of criminal records seemed the most profitable line of inquiry. However, it was going to take quite some time to do in full.

They had made significant progress on this front, however, by the end of the day. Returning to his office briefly before heading home, Greg found a message waiting for him on his office phone.

"Detective Inspector? It's Alex Cartwright. I got your call. I heard from Abbott House that you got the warrant and I've been ordered to give you my full cooperation, thank God. Okay, I've been thinking a lot about this since we talked yesterday. I don't want to get anyone into trouble, you know? But well… Anyway, I don't know if this is at all related but I do remember that there was someone who left the day after Agnes did. His name is Patrick Martin. I didn't think much about it at first since he'd been in and out quite a few times now. Generally, I would have called him harmless but the timing worried me a little. There was someone else who crossed my mind as well. Thomas Gains is one of our out-patients and he *isn't* harmless. He has a history of harassing the female patients, particularly the omegas. He's actually on warning. One more complaint and he'll be banned from making use of the shelter's facilities. I don't know if either of them have a criminal record or anything and I don't actually *know* that either of them had any kind of run in with Agnes, but they both would have known her. There aren't that many residents here and they all eat together. And Gains would almost certainly have been in some of the same groups Agnes would have been in for meth addiction. I hope that helps."

Greg dropped the coat he'd just picked up and headed back to the conference room. Most of the officers had left for the day already but Jones and Donovan were still there.

"I need everything you can find for me on two people," he told them. "Thomas Gains and Patrick Martin. What do the shelter's records have on them and do either of them have criminal records?"

It didn't take long to find the information they needed. Patrick Martin was a thirty-eight year old beta and a long time heroin user. On and off the streets for nearly ten years, he'd managed to get himself clean twice only to fall off the waggon shortly thereafter. He had two busts for possession but no history of violence. If it weren't for the timing of his departure from the shelter Greg wouldn't have bothered with him. However, as Alex pointed out, the timing made him worth looking into.

Thomas Gains was another matter entirely. A thirty-four year old alpha, he had a record as long as Greg's arm and possession was only part of it. He'd done time for aggravated assault, attempted rape and resisting arrest. He was currently out on parole and supposedly part of the addiction programs at the shelter as part of his conditions for remaining out of jail. And there was one report from the staff member who ran one of the group therapy sessions that he had been making the two omegas in the group uncomfortable by repeatedly trying to press his suit, as it were. Agnes was one of them.

"I want him picked up," Greg said. "Jones, take Donavon and get him. Don't tell him what this is for, make him think it's something to do with violating his parole or something. Book him and then go get some dinner. We'll let him stew in a cell for a couple of hours before we talk to him."

A half an hour later, Greg was just sitting down to his own dinner when Donavon called.

"The address is a fake," she said without preamble. “It's a flat over a kabob place. The little old lady who lives there has no idea who Gains is and the neighbours all confirm that she's lived there alone for years. No young men visiting and since she can barely walk and her neighbours routinely get her groceries for her and that kind of thing, they'd know."

"Damn," Greg hissed. "I want a warrant out for his arrest. If nothing else, we've got him on parole violation. Get that APB out and then head home. It'll probably be a long day tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

The following day they finished going through the files from Abbott House and found four others worth interviewing. However, as two of those were homeless finding them wasn't easy. It took three days to track them all down and even when they did, there didn't seem to be much there worth their time. Charles Case and Giles “Franky” Rue joined their list of suspects but both were far down below Gains and Martin, both of whom remained in the wind.

Greg was sorting through Gains' file again, looking for associates they hadn't thought to talk to yet when Jones stuck his head into the room looking grim.

"Number five," he said softly.

Greg's heart dropped. It was too soon, he thought helplessly as he headed out. They should have had another week at least before the killer struck again. They should have had more time…

A warehouse several streets away from where the first victim had died had been torn down some time ago and an office building put up in its place. The offices had subsequently been abandoned in their turn and looked out at the surrounding area with blank windows and graffiti covered walls. A sign that looked like it had been there for years said that the site was due to be renovated soon. The basements of the old warehouse were still extant beneath the more recent building and could be accessed via a set of stairs behind a loading dock. It was into this area that Greg headed, trailed by his sombre team.

The cement floors and walls of the old basement showed considerable age and neglect, but the space itself was cleaner than one would have expected. It had clearly stood empty for some time before being taken over as someone's flop but there was none of the usual trash that littered such places. Instead a group of old mismatched tents had been set up at the far end in an uneven circle. In the middle, an old kerosene stove that had seen better days sat on a stack of crates beside a picnic table that looked as if it had been filched from one of city's parks. Not far from the tents a line had been strung between one of the cement pillars that divided up the place and some kind of tripod stand, as though for a camera. Clothes hung drying on it.

Someone, or rather a group of someones, had done their best to make this place home and had clearly been here for some time.

"Who called it in?" Greg asked of one of the uniforms as his team spread out to begin the grim task of processing the scene.

"We don't know," she said. "Emergency services will have a record of the call, but all we know at the moment is that it was female. She said someone had been killed and told the operator how to find the body before hanging up. Wouldn't give her name or anything more than that."

Greg nodded and sent her back up.

There were no windows down here and the few lanterns the people who lived here had put up wouldn't have done much to dispel the darkness. The large fluorescent lights the forensics team were setting up, on the other hand, threw everything into sharp relief showing all the age and wear on the tents and creating black shadows with knife sharp edges.

Most of the activity was centred around a grey and blue tent near the back of the group. It probably wouldn't have done well against the rain any more but it was enough to give a bit of privacy here. The dark stain of blood that had soaked through the bottom to pool around the edges looked almost too bright against the muted colours of the tent and the grey cement basement around it.

Greg took his time making his way over to them, getting a feel for the place. It was hard to tell exactly, but he thought there was anywhere from five to ten people living here. He couldn't smell much of anything beyond the sharp smell of the blood, the copper tang so strong in the air he could nearly taste it. Still, there were lingering remnants of the people who lived here. A pack of some kind, Greg was sure of that.

A few efforts had been made to make the place more than just a place to sleep. Several of the tents had been decorated in one way or another. One in particular had been painted over to emulate the TARDIS. Sketches had been tacked to several and to one of the nearby pillars. Pausing by one Greg found himself looking at a remarkably good drawing of the tower bridge. The artist had an eye and certainly some talent. They probably made some money with that. This kind of thing would sell well in the more touristy areas of the city.

Donovan looked up as Greg finally approached the tent containing their victim. She looked grim and there was a tinge of green in her slightly too pale cheeks. But she was maintaining.

"This one fought," she said, with a certain grim satisfaction in her voice. "Looks like she got in a few blows before he took her down."

Greg nodded. It was small comfort but at this point he'd take it. And who knew, maybe there would be trace under fingernails or something that would help them finally catch this guy.

The flaps of the tent had been pinned back by the forensics team in order to better get at the body. Finally getting a look at what was left of their fifth victim, Greg swallowed convulsively. This kind of thing never got easier and what this guy did to his victims... It took a minute for Greg to be sure he'd keep his stomach.

She may have fought back but her killer had visited that back upon her in a way he hadn't with the others.

"A lot of rage there," Jones commented. "That's new."

"No," Greg disagreed. "I think it was always there. Just banked, controlled before now."

"So, did he lose control because she fought or is he evolving?" Jones asked.

"No idea," Greg answered accepting the gloves and booties Jones held out to him. He donned them carefully stepping into the lake of blood in the tent and squatting down by the remains.

"Age..." he began. "Probably somewhere between twenty and forty. I can't really tell with the state she's in." Jones took notes as Greg spoke. "Light skinned black or maybe mixed race," he continued. Her kinky black hair was wet and matted in the blood that surrounded her. Her skin, quite a bit darker than his own but still several shades lighter than Donovan's, had already taken on the grey hues of death. Black eyes stared lifelessly at nothing, the film that formed as decomposition began already advancing across them.

This death was far more savage than the proceeding four. Her throat hadn't simply been cut, it had nearly been severed from her body and Greg could clearly see the white gleam of her spinal cord through the torn muscle and severed ligaments.

Greg reached over and carefully checked her jaw and what was left of her neck. "No sign of rigor yet but she'd still been here long enough for the blood to mostly dry. So, probably dead four or five hours now. Putting TOD sometime in the small hours of the morning. If she's anything like the others the slash to the throat will be the cause of death and all the rest of the damage will be postmortem, but the ME will have to confirm that."

"There's some bruising of the face though," he said, frowning. "Probably in the fight to take her down in the first place. And why is that Constable Donovan?" he asked, glancing back at where the other officer stood beside Jones listening to Greg's recitation with focused interest.

She'd been with them a couple of months now. He'd kept her on the edges of the team while she got used to working in the CID, getting a feel for her talents. He and Jones had agreed that it was time she began helping to work the scenes in earnest if she was to move up the ranks, something they both felt she had the capacity to do.

She took a deep breath pulling on her own gloves and slipping the booties on over her shoes before joining Greg inside the tent. The green tinge in her skin deepened but he could almost see her putting aside her horror to focus on the scene.

"There doesn't look to be any evidence of postmortem disfigurement of her features," she said slowly, as though carefully weighing each word before committing to it. "With all the time he took to carve her up, he didn't bother to cut her face. Says he didn't care about that. So, the only reason to strike out at her face at all would be to incapacitate her in the first place."

There was a slight lift to the end of her statement, making it more of a question as she glanced up at Greg.

"Is that your opinion, constable?" he asked, giving nothing away in his own voice or face.

She swallowed and seemed to straighten slightly, even while remaining crouched by the body. "Yes, sir," she said, firmly this time.

Greg nodded. "Good. What else can you tell me?"

While there may have been little damage to the woman's face, below the neck was another story. Instead of simply cutting open her abdomen and removing everything from inside, her chest had been cut into as well and some attempt had clearly been made to force open her rib cage.

"I think," Donovan said. She paused, frowning down at the body before continuing. "This was spur of the moment rage, not a conscious evolution of his style."

Greg, who had come to the same conclusion himself, was pleased to hear her say so. She had good instincts. All she had to do was learn to trust them.

"Look where he's tried to open her ribs," she continued more firmly pointing to the marks where the killer had clearly hacked at the bones. "The cuts are small, like he was using the scalpel he uses for the more delicate work and it wasn't up to it. All he did mostly was take chips out of the bones. Only a couple are broken. He got as far as this," she said, motioning to where one rib had been pulled back and had snapped at the far end. Now it stuck out of the side of her chest nearly horizontally. "That was where he kind of gave up, realising that he couldn't open her up the way he wanted with what he had. So he did the damage he could inside her chest and left it at that."

An attempt had clearly been made to remove or at least damage the organs inside the rib cage through the small hole that one removed rib made, but it hadn't been nearly enough.

"If he'd been evolving consciously,” she continued. “He'd have brought the right tools for opening her up all the way. He knows too much about anatomy not to know that his scalpel wouldn't be enough to get through the ribs."

Finally, Donovan looked back up at Greg from the body. Her expression less of a question and more for a request for the expected confirmation. He nodded. "Well done, Constable. As it happens I'm in agreement with you."

Greg looked over their victim sombrely.

“This definitely wasn’t a planned evolution," he said. "But now that he’s done it I don’t think he’ll go back to the way he did it before. He enjoyed this too much.”

Nothing remained in the body cavity below the ribcage. Instead of being laid out carefully, though, as at the other scenes, the internal organs themselves had been cut up. Greg could barely identify the pieces of blood covered meat that covered the floor around the body. Only the intestines were still recognisable as such but even they had been sliced into pieces.

The forensics team had already put bags over her hands to protect whatever evidence might be on them but as Greg carefully lifted one he could see the bruises and scrapes on her knuckles. Defencive wounds marked her fingers, some of which had cut to the bone.

Not far from the body lay the broken pieces of a mug and a small battery operated lantern that was badly dented on one side. It had all been liberally splashed with blood but the pattern alone indicated that they had been laying as they were when the victim's throat had been cut. Other things, scattered bits of clothing and toiletries, gave mute testimony to the struggle.

"She fought," Donovan said softly. "Here's hoping she did enough damage to leave us something to find."

Greg only nodded, distracted by something in the corner of the tent. A small cardboard box had been knocked over in the struggle. In it was paper, pencils and charcoal. One piece of paper lay on the floor not far from the body, so drenched in blood that it was hard to make anything of the drawing on it out. But there was a pencil next to it and he could see that the top half had still been blank.

She'd been the artist. And she had been working on a new sketch when he'd come for her. A sketch she’d never finish now.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to do this but there will probably be a bit of a delay between this and the next chapter. My friend CJ, who is dying of brain cancer, is deteriorating very quickly. She now needs people with her at hospice 24/7. We're divining up the time between us and I'm spending most of my time with her at this point. We don't know how much longer she has but it isn't long. Another week maybe... We just don't know. But the nights spent with her are long and hard as she is in a lot of pain and no amount of morphine and other drugs is enough to keep it in check for long.
> 
> Please take some time to pray for her and for her husband, Jim.
> 
> She celebrated her 46th birthday last week. It just isn't fair.

Two hours later they were still working their way through the scene when one of the uniforms approached Greg.

"Some bloke's here," he said. "Says this is his territory."

The uniform, a beta, looked slightly nervous which wasn't a surprise. Being in an alpha's territory without that alpha's permission was dangerous. While it was legal for emergency personnel to enter even an alpha's officially recognised territory without the alpha's permission in the administration of their duty, it wasn't unheard of for an alpha to attack first and only later realise that the people they'd attacked weren't trespassing. The fact that this area wasn't legally claimed by anyone wouldn't make this alpha's instinct to defend what was his any less strong.

The weather reports had been right for once and the false spring of the week before was over, the temperature dropping back down near freezing. Still, it was something of a relief to emerge into the grey, rain smelling day from the dark basement smelling of blood.

There was no wailing this time, but the quiet sobs from the small huddled group of misery waiting for Greg in the loading dock above was nearly as bad. Six of them stood huddled together against the wind, arms around one another and eyes glassy with shock and pain.

One stepped forward as Greg emerged from the basement, placing himself between him and those with him.

Greg stopped and waited for the alpha to come to him, not wanting to appear to threaten his pack. The alpha was about thirty with black hair that hung nearly to his shoulders and a gaunt face that gave him a slightly sinister air. The eyes, though, were reddened from crying and the face was pale. As he got closer Greg finally caught his scent and realised that he wasn't just an alpha, but a very dominant one. Greg wouldn't want to have to put to the test which of them was more dominant.

The other alpha stopped a little more than five feet away from Greg, a safe minimum distance for approaching an unknown alpha in an uncertain situation.

"You the one Sherlock was working with?" he asked, his voice roughened from the tears he'd shed.

Surprised, Greg simply nodded. "Yes. I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

He held out his warrant card which the alpha took it with hands that shook ever so slightly, examining it carefully before handing it back.

A child with the small group darted over to stand just behind and to the right of his alpha, tugging at his sleeve.

"'E's the one," he whispered urgently, clearly being careful to keep his alpha between himself and Greg. "The one at hospital. The one who chased me away from the room what Sherlock was supposed to be in."

It took a moment for Greg to remember the boy who had been outside of Sherlock's hospital room more than a week ago. With all that had happened he'd utterly forgotten about him.

The alpha looked at Greg, allowing his expression to ask the question for him.

The child was young enough to be barely more than a pup, his scent still carrying more than a bit of the ambiguousness of childhood rather than the scent of whatever permutation he would grow into. It wasn't all that uncommon for a child in the presence of both his or her alpha and a strange alpha to speak solely to their own pack leader, even when answering questions posed to them by the outsider. In such cases it was also customary for the stranger to speak to a child's alpha rather than to the child directly unless invited to do so and so Greg addressed the younger alpha before him rather than the boy.

"I didn't chase him away," Greg objected. "He took one look at me and bolted."

The kid shrugged. "He did chase me," he said to his alpha, the hint of defiance in his tone not hiding his nervousness.

"I saw him outside the door to Sherlock's hospital room. When he saw me he ran and..." Greg shrugged. "I'm a cop. Someone runs I'm going to chase if only to find out why they're running."

A slight, sad smile pulled at the side of the alpha's mouth for a moment. Only for a moment though before dissolving again into sharp grief.

"My name is Kevin Saunders. This," he motioned behind Greg toward the basement. "This is my territory, at least for the moment."

"Are they all yours then?" Greg asked. 

Kevin nodded his accent. Greg didn't bother asking if there was paperwork for any of it. There rarely was when dealing with the homeless.

"And inside?" Greg asked as kindly as he could.

The alpha's face twisted in pain. "Margie." The word was little more than a whisper. He took a deep breath, clearly trying to pull himself together.

"Marjorie Phelps," he said in a stronger voice. "She's one of my pack." Still present tense. Greg knew it often took a while for those left behind by violent crime to adjust to their new reality. "Did she... Did she suffer?"

Greg shook his head. "She fought," he told the alpha. "She tried to defender herself and it looks like she got in a few solid blows. But the death itself, that would have been fast."

Kevin shut his eyes before nodding slightly and opening them again. He seemed to draw strength from Greg's words, though whether it was from the fact that she'd fought or that she hadn't suffered or both Greg didn't know.

"What happened?" Greg asked, pulling out his notebook.

Kevin came out of his grief enough to glare at the notebook.

"I promise you," Greg told him as kindly as he could. "This won't be any easier later and I need to know all I can if I'm going to catch this bastard."

After a heartbeat of silence, the anger deflated back into pain.

"We've been looking at relocating," he said finally. "Hadn't made any decisions yet, but with all that's been going on we've felt that we should maybe find someplace else. Still, it's... This has been ours a while now, we've always felt safe here. God I never should have..." He seemed to shake himself out of that line of thought.

"Sherlock's been asking everyone to keep an eye out. Said this guy's been stalking people so we might see something if we keep our eyes open. Margie and a few of the others started asking questions around, nothing much just trying to get a feel for who might be hanging around who's new or didn't belong. Seems Margie thought she might have seen something or rather knew someone who had. She sent Benny," he motioned to the kid, "to go find Sherlock. We'd heard tell he'd been taken off in an ambulance and no one's seen him since. He alright?" There was genuine concern in Kevin's question.

"He'll be fine," Greg said, not wanting to get into the details of what had happened and even less where Sherlock was now. "Full name?" he asked Kevin, motioning to Benny.

"Benjamin Wiggins," the boy said, speaking to Greg directly for the first time.

"And do you know what she saw?" he asked him, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.

Benny shook his head before looking up at his alpha.

"She didn't actually," Kevin answered for him. "Just knew some bloke who said they had. The night the pro got done."

"Do you know who it was she'd talked to?"

Another shake of the head. "No."

Kevin looked down at Benny who also shook his head. "Somewhere near where it happened, some wino over there. That's all she told me. Just that and that I should go tell Sherlock she wanted to see him. Couldn't though. She said she'd talk to him when he finally decided to turn up again. Said it probably weren't nothing anyway."

Inwardly Greg swore.

"Who else knew Marjorie was looking into this?"

"We've all been keeping a look out," Kevin said. "I don't know who all would have known about who was doing more than that but it wasn't a secret."

He looked beyond Greg to the basement again and once again pain twisted his features. "I shouldn't have let her..."

Greg cut him off. "Sherlock's right. This guy was stalking his victims. He wanted her personally. Sooner or later he would have got her."

"We should have left London all together," Kevin said softly before looking back toward the small group clustered a little ways away. There were six of them, including Kevin and Benny. There would have been seven before last night. They were huddled together against both the cold and the shock. One young man was sobbing brokenly into the shoulder of a girl not much older who rubbed his back and looked towards Greg and Kevin with tears running silently down her own checks. The others stared at him and Kevin or off into nothing with the empty look of those who couldn't yet understand what had happened to them.

Kevin reached out a hand and almost absently stroked Benny's hair. The boy leaned into the touch in the unselfconscious way of children, pressing himself close to his alpha. Taking a deep breath Kevin visibly straightened himself before turning back to Greg.

"What can we do to help?"

There was strength in the voice that hadn't been there before and somehow it struck Greg deeper and more painfully even than Shaun's desperate keening. He'd felt for Shaun, deeply. But this young man had a full pack here before him, had responsibilities he couldn't put aside even for the time it took to grieve. And so he was using the duty he had for his remaining packmates to ground him against the pain of losing one. He was drawing his strength from the weight of his responsibility.

Before recently, before Sherlock, Greg would have respected that but not really understood it. Now though... Remembering what it had been like to face Mycroft Holmes in that hospital room, feeling the way his new authority grounded him and gave him a strength he'd never felt before... he understood what Kevin was doing in a visceral way that somehow brought home to Greg the grief he must been feeling in a way nothing else had.

He met Kevin's gaze squarely, knowing there was little he could say that would help. Saying he was sorry for his loss, giving the official departmental line... Here and now it wouldn't mean a thing.

"We'll get this bastard," Greg said softly, answering the thought rather than the words. "No matter what else, we will get him."

"As long as it stops," Kevin said softly. "At this point I don't care about anything but that."

"It will stop," Greg said firmly.

Kevin nodded before glancing down at Benny. He withdrew his hand from the kid's hair and a nod of his head back toward the others sent the boy hurrying away.

"Margie used the same suppressants as everybody, mostly," Kevin said. "But it ain't safe not to have any heats. So, once a year or so she does. We thought it was safe enough to have it here. She did last year and it weren’t a problem. Anyway, she was just ramping up to one. Her scent didn't start to change until late yesterday afternoon, but we knew it was coming, her having stopped taking her meds about a week ago. Me and the only other alpha in our pack went to scout out other places we'd been thinking about moving to. Left about noon, I guess."

He shook his head. “We was so sure she was safe enough here. You couldn't smell nothing from outside and no one was going to get in what with five people here to protect her. In the evening one of the other girls went out to get some food that turned out to be bad. She and the others who'd been here keeping an eye on Margie all had to go into the A&E, get their stomach's pumped. One of mine, Ricky, he's still in hospital. When Carlida and Andy got out this morning they came straight back but..." He stopped and his lips thinned as he seemed to fight some internal battle. "It wasn't that she was in full heat yet but she was just far enough along now that it wasn't a good idea for her to go wandering about the city, you know. So she didn't go with them since she didn't get sick."

“When was this?”

“About midnight.”

"And the food, where did it come from?"

"It came from out back of that German place, couple streets over." Kevin seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing. "Every Tuesday the assistant cook closes up the kitchens alone. He leaves whatever is left over from that night out for us, behind one of the dumpsters."

"This is a regular thing then," Greg confirmed and Kevin nodded. "For how long now?"

When Kevin hesitated again Greg pressed. "Look, I don't care about whatever minor code violations there are involved here. As far as I'm concerned the guy sounds like he's doing more good than harm."

"Yeah, okay. Almost three months now," Kevin said.

"Was there anything different last night?"

Kevin looked at him speculatively for a moment. "Wait, you think the guy what killed Margie, you think he knew and what? Poisoned the food or something?"

"It's possible," Greg said. "Everything we have suggests that he stalks his victims ahead of time, waiting for the right opportunity. In this case, with a full pack to protect her... I think he may well have decided to create his opportunity instead of waiting for one to arise on its own."

Kevin swore before turning back toward his pack. "Lidy!" he called. One of the girl's looked up and Kevin waved her over.

She approached cautiously, eyeing Greg. She stepped up just behind and to the right of her alpha as Benny had done. Facing Greg but with the protection of Kevin between them. She was perhaps twenty-five or so and was clearly of some kind of Mediterranean decent with Black hair, eyes and olive skin. 

"This is Calida Martinez," he told Greg before turning to her. "The DI wants to ask you about the food from last night."

Her lips firmed and a belligerent look came into her eyes. Kevin spoke again before she could say anything. "I told him about the restaurant. He don't care about that."

She relaxed slightly but still eyed Greg distrustfully. "Don't know what you want to know," she said. Her looks and name may have been exotic but her accent was pure London. "I went over about eleven and the food was there in a box like always. I brought it back and we ate. Then all of us was sick."

"All of you were sick except for Marjorie though, right?" Greg asked.

At the omega's name Calida's eyes filled but she held the tears back. "Yeah," she confirmed. "So, we just all thought it was bad shrimp or something. Was gonna go warn Bill about it today."

"Shrimp?" Greg asked.

"They do a seafood pasta thing," Kevin said. "It's pretty good but Margie is... was..." Kevin's voice seemed to weaken on the past tense then firmed as Calida laid a comforting hand on his arm. "She was allergic to shell fish. Not bad, not like it could kill her or nothing. But it would make her pretty sick."

"Was her allergy common knowledge?" Greg asked.

"It wasn't a secret." Kevin sounded grim. "If someone wanted to find out, they probably could."

"And when you got out of hospital this morning?" Greg asked Calida.

She looked toward the entrance to the basement. "Andy and me, we got out about six I guess. He stopped to grab some fags but I came straight here and..." Kevin put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him as Benny had done, dashing away tears before looking back to Greg. "I didn't touch nothing. I could see all the blood and I could see inside the tent when I got close. I knew there weren’t nothing I could do."

"Were you the one who called it in then?" Greg asked. "Why didn't you identify yourself?" he asked when she had nodded her affirmation.

"Didn't know what to do," she admitted. "I knew I had to call somebody but I had to find Kev. Didn't want to tell the cops nothing till he knew what was happening."

Greg nodded, putting his notebook away. It made sense and he couldn't fault her for wanting her alpha in the face of a packmate's murder. At least she _had_ called the police.

"I'll have more questions later and I'll need to talk to the rest of your pack at some point," he told Kevin. "But for now, why don't you get your people someplace warm. They don't need to be here for this. Just let me know where you'll be."

Kevin nodded and gave Greg the address of an abandoned building halfway across town.

As he left, he turned to Greg one last time. "You said she fought. That she maybe did some damage to the guy?"

"Yes," Greg said quietly. "She fought hard."

Kevin's lips compressed, holding back some strong emotion. He put his arm around Calida and led her back to where the others waited.

* * *

The next afternoon Greg headed to Colwith. Sherlock was in his room which had become a disaster area. Papers were strewn everywhere, over every surface, including the walls where many had been taped. The map Ann had put up was covered in post-it notes. Sherlock himself was in one of the chairs which he'd pulled away from the window and into the middle of the room. He wasn't sitting in it, but rather seemed to be squatting on the seat, hands pressed together before his lips in what Greg recognised as his thinking pose. His eyes were fixed on the opposite wall over the desk which was now covered in pages from one of the files.

"It doesn't count if no crime was actually committed," Sherlock said, not glancing at Greg.

"I'm sorry?" Greg asked.

"You're wife's challenge. It doesn't count as part of it if there was no actual crime committed." Sherlock jumped up out of the chair and strode across to the wall. Greg noticed he was dressed in a very well made pair of trousers and a button down shirt that looked far above anything he himself owned.

"Where did you get the clothes?" he asked in surprise.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said absently, tearing down one of the papers. "Look here, this wasn't even criminal activity. The person who took..."

He stopped his eyes narrowing as he looked at Greg for the first time.

"No," he said flatly. "No, we should have had more time before another death."

"He's escalating." Greg wasn’t even surprised that Sherlock knew by looking at him.

Sherlock shook his head. "Even with escalation, this is too soon..." He trailed off. "There's something more, though," he said. "Something about this death other than the fact that it's too soon. What is it?"

"I'm sorry," Greg said, knowing there was no way to soften the blow. He didn't know how well Sherlock had known Marjorie Phelps but he'd known her well enough that she'd sent Benny to find Sherlock when she thought she knew something instead of telling her own alpha. And after how he reacted to Sophie's death...

"Her name was Marjorie Phelps."

Sherlock didn't move, didn't speak. For a moment he was utterly still. No expression crossed his features and there was no hitch or speeding to his breath. No voluntary reaction showed the least hint of any distress he may have felt. But his already too pale skin went paler still.

After a moment he opened his mouth before snapping it shut again and turning away swiftly, dropping the paper he held on the floor as he paced over to the window.

"No, no, no," he muttered, obviously speaking more to himself than Greg. "She should have been safe, none of the others..." He spun back around, pinning Greg with a searching stare. "What about her pack? There were eight of them all told. And she knew how to fight. Sophie would have been a pushover in comparison. Where was Kevin?"

Greg relayed what had happened in as concise a manner as he could without losing the details, unconsciously falling into the clipped, impersonal tones of a police report. The clinical phrasing, while it would have been unbearably cold to some, seemed to help calm and centre Sherlock.

"Of course," Sherlock said to himself, turning away again. This time his pacing was slow, measured steps as his mind whirled. "Progression. The first was entirely without protection or means to defend herself. The second, while still without protection was not entirely vulnerable. The third..." The hesitation in Sherlock's voice was barely perceptible before he went on. "She had a mate and so some protection but the pack itself was not a close one. More of a loose association who came and went as they pleased. The fourth victim was the same but she was harder to get at because he had to drive her out of the shelter first. Stupid! Stupid!" he hissed. "I should have realised that the next victim would _have_ to have a pack, a close and solid one."

"Wait, you said he drove Agnes out of the shelter?" Greg demanded.

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, of course, he did. None of the others knew they were being watched, he's too careful for that. Also, why would he need to keep going through Agnes' things day after day. There's no reason for it other than _wanting_ her to be afraid. He planned it out and drove her from the shelter so she'd be easier to get at."

It made far too much sense, Greg reflected unhappily. "Does Marjorie fit your pattern?"

"Yes." There was something bitter in the tone. "She fits it perfectly. Margie was independent. She'd acknowledged Kevin and lived with the pack but still mostly did her own thing. Her last alpha had disclaimed her for it."

"Disclaimed?" Greg demanded, shocked. For an alpha to disclaim or throw a pack member out was extremely rare; for an alpha to do so with an omega was almost unheard of. "Just for being independent?"

"She questioned his authority in front of the rest of the pack one too many times. She refused to show 'proper respect'," the quotation marks were audible and bitter. "It was how she ended up on the streets."

That wasn't just wrong it was sick. The alpha inside twisted furiously at the thought of someone throwing an omega out to fend for themselves. He pushed it aside though.

"And this was all common knowledge?" Greg asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Oh yes, everyone knew. Most thought Kevin was crazy to claim her but it worked for them. He didn't mind her being independent as long as she brought any concerns she had to him in private instead of airing dirty laundry in public. As long as he didn't demand actual submission from her she was willing to abide by that rule."

"She knew something," Greg said. "She sent Benny to find you in hospital."

Sherlock stared at him. "She _what_?" he demanded.

"The night before your transfer to the Mech Clinic I was headed back to your room when I saw a kid at the door," Greg said. "He saw me, clearly made me for a cop, turned and ran. I tried to chase him if only to find out what he wanted, but he got away."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock sounded far more upset than was usual.

"I forgot," Greg admitted. He shrugged. "You were asleep when I got back to the room and I didn't want to wake you. The next day was when you were transferred to the clinic. I was pretty focused on that."

"You should have told me," Sherlock shouted. "If I'd known..." He turned away stalking to the window and back again, his hands clenching and unclenched at his sides.

Greg said nothing. He didn't know if this death could have been stopped or not. All he knew was that the possibility that it might have would haunt both of them.

"Let me see," Sherlock asked eventually, holding his hand out for the file Greg held. His voice was tight but calm.

Greg held the file out, wishing that Sherlock wouldn't have to see the butchered remains of yet another person he'd known when he opened it. But Sherlock wouldn't thank him for trying to protect him from this and, frankly, he needed Sherlock on this one. So did the victims, both those already dead and those yet to die.

* * *

The ringing of the phone woke Greg out of a dead sleep. Groaning he turned over, flailing on the night table for his mobile.

Ann made a muffled sound of protest beside him, trying to bury her head farther into her pillow.

Finally finding the damn thing Greg pulled it into the bed with him instead of sitting up.

"Lestrade."

"Mr. Lestrade, this is Denise Patel from the Colwith Rehabilitation Centre."

A cold knot formed in Greg's stomach and he knew what she was going to say before she said it.

"We check on all the patients twice during the course of the night. Mr. Holmes was not in his room when one of the nurses went in a half a hour ago. He seems to be nowhere in the building. In fact, no one seems to have seen him at all since dinner last night."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to apologise for how long it has been between updates and thank those of you who contacted me with sympathy over my friend's illness.
> 
> CJ passed on 22 March 2015. She was an amazing person and her loss has left a hole in the lives of many, many people. I haven't really had the heart to write since her loss and only now, more than six weeks later, have I been able to really start working on my stories again.
> 
> I miss her more than words can ever express. But she was a writer as well and always encouraged me in my own writing. So, I know she'd be the first to tell me to get on with it. :-)
> 
> Also, one of the things I did to get myself back into the swing of things was to reread this story from the start. There were enough things that I thought could be better that I went ahead and did a MASSIVE edit of the entire story. The story-line itself remains unchanged so you don't have to go back and re-read if you don't want to. But there are a few significant changes (particularly in Chapter 10) that I'd recommend it if you have the time.
> 
> I've also gone through, and as recommended by my beta, have added in all of the location images I have collected over the course of writing this story.
> 
> Lastly, all thanks continuously go to Coinan - the best beta reader anyone could ever have.

“I should have been expecting this,” Greg muttered while he pulled on his trousers. “When I find that kid I’m going to kick his bloody arse.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” Ann asked, handing him a jumper he pulled on without even registering which one it was.

“I can guess,” he all but growled. “He’ll want to talk to the latest victim’s pack. He knows them and we know that she knew something.”

Greg pulled on his shoes while he headed toward the stairs, hoping first on one foot and then the other.

“Why the hell he couldn’t have waited until morning, though…” he continued, throwing open the hall closet and finding his coat. “We’re bringing them all in for formal interviews today. He knows that. I _told_ him that!” He struggled into his coat and began searching the pockets for his keys. “He’s been in Colwith a week, he’s free to leave during the day now. He could have observed. I would have let him. But no, he has to go off on his own, into a bad part of town where there are sodding drug dealers all over the sodding place when he’s barely two weeks off cocaine.”

Turning around he found Ann holding his keys up. He grabbed them and only then realised that she was dressed as well.

“What…?” he began.

“This isn’t about your case anymore,” she told him, pulling on her own coat. “Or at least not just about your case. This is about our pack. There’s no way in hell that I’m just sitting home waiting for news.”

Greg opened his mouth to argue and then shut it. It wasn’t just that Ann had the look he knew meant she had no intention of backing down. It was that even if he did manage to win this argument it would take precious time he didn’t have. He had an idea where Sherlock might have gone to but the kid had a major head start on him and there was no time to be wasted if Greg was going to find him there.

 

* * *

 

The sun was just rising above the horizon when Greg pulled up outside yet another disused warehouse on a road that seemed more pothole than concrete. He seemed to be seeing far too many of these kinds of places lately. In the distance the high rises of the city centre glittered against a piercingly clear sky, almost too bright to look at in the morning light. They seemed to be part of another world far removed from where they were now, where the only things that glittered were shards of broken glass. Here they were still in shadow, the sun having yet to rise high enough to show between any of the surrounding buildings.

Kevin had told Greg that this would be the best place to find his pack the day before. Greg only hoped they were actually here.

“This isn’t the best of neighbourhoods,” he told Ann as they got out of the car. “So stay close.”

“Yes, I think I got that much,” Ann said, pulling her coat more firmly about her in the early morning chill.

The previous week had been warmer but the clear night had dropped temperatures low enough to leave a thin crust of ice over the puddles that had collected in potholes and cracks. Greg picked his way around them with care, Ann close behind him.

“’E said you’d be by,” came a voice from above as they neared the warehouse.

Looking up Greg saw a small form leaning out of a broken out window on the first floor.

“Good morning, Benny,” Greg called up. “Is Sherlock still here?”

“Nah,” the kid answered. “Just a tick.”

He disappeared from the window.

“He’s only a child,” Ann said softly.

“No more than twelve or thirteen,” Greg agreed. “You can’t even smell his permutation yet.”

Ann said nothing more. It wasn’t that she was unaware of the realities of homelessness in the city but Greg knew that seeing it for yourself was always different.

A badly rusted metal door to their right opened with a ponderous creak and the boy popped out. He’d made it barely two steps toward them when a young woman appeared behind him. She wrapped an arm around his chest and pulled him back against her to keep him from darting forward. Greg recognised her as one of Kevin’s. An alpha in her early twenties, her eyes already had the older look of someone used to the streets. Her short cropped hair was either very blonde or possibly bleached, Greg couldn’t quite tell. She was dominant enough that it was somewhat surprising to see her as a subordinate in another’s pack.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “We ain’t due to be interviewed ‘til later.”

“I’m looking for Sherlock,” Greg said, shuffling through Kevin’s hasty introductions to find her name. Jess, he remembered but her last name escaped him for the moment.

“Not here,” she said shortly.

“But he was here,” Greg pressed.

“Yes,” she agreed reluctantly.

“How long ago did he leave?” Ann asked, when the girl failed to elaborate further.

She received an assessing look from the other woman. “Don’t have a watch, do I?” she snapped.

Greg just folded his arms and waited. Finally, Jess sighed. Alpha she may be but she wasn’t up to Greg’s level and his position as a police officer also helped to give him the upper hand. “Don’t know. Couple hours maybe.”

“Can I talk to Kevin?” Greg asked.

Benny had been nearly bouncing the entire time they spoke. This question seemed to be the last straw.

“Him and Kev, they talked for ages,” he blurted out as though unable to keep the information in. “Talked all serious like. And Sherlock smelled funny. Like an omega, which was weird.” He wrinkled his nose as if he’d found the concept of Sherlock smelling like an omega somewhat distasteful.

Jess looked unhappy with Benny’s outburst and released him, shoving him none too gently back into the warehouse with a stern look that immediately quelled his excitement. Turning back to Greg and Ann, though, she just looked resigned.

“Kev’s not here,” she said grudgingly. “He went with Sherlock. And before you ask, no I don’t know what they was saying to each other or where they was going when they left.”

“Is that usual, for you not to know where your alpha is?”

“No, of course not,” she snapped, clearly offended by the suggestion that Kevin was in any way a negligent alpha. “But Kev’s worried that Margie was killed ‘cause she knew something and he ain’t taking that risk with the rest of us. So there ain’t no point in asking any of the others either.”

Greg could see other figures in the shadows behind the alpha but none made any effort to speak to him. In fact, none even approached where Jess stood, blocking the doorway. It was clear that in Kevin’s absence it was Jess who had control of the pack. Hardly surprising. It was usually the case that if there was a second alpha in a pack, they were the default second in command, as it were.

Greg pulled out one of his cards. He’d given one to Kevin already but it couldn’t hurt to make sure the rest of his pack had one as well. He approached the woman carefully holding out the card before him.

“Please, I need to talk to Sherlock,” he told her. “He’s not in any trouble but it’s important that I find him.”

Jess took the card with obvious reluctance. Still, she put it in her pocket instead of throwing it away. Then she disappeared back into the warehouse, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Greg expected that was the best he was going to get there and any further attempts at information gathering would be fruitless.

“What now?” Ann asked as they headed back to the car.

“Everything I’ve seen of Kevin and of his pack leads me to believe he’s a good alpha,” Greg told her. “So, as long as Sherlock is with him I don’t think he’s in any immediate danger…” He trailed off, digging in his pocket for the keys.

Ann stood on the other side of the car, hands in her pockets as she regarded him over the bonnet. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Greg swore and pulled out his phone as he got into the car.

“I know it’s early,” he told Jones, “but I need you at the yard. We have a problem.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Greg finally convinced Ann to leave the yard for her own office. He only managed it by promising he’d call the moment he knew anything. He understood and sympathised with her unwillingness to do nothing while a member of their pack was missing and possibly in danger. Nonetheless there was nothing she could do here at the yard to help. At least at her office she had work to do to keep her distracted.

He’d seen more than a few officers exchanging odd glances over a DI’s wife turning up with him, seeming to be worried over a missing homeless kid. Especially one they all knew to be a royal pain in the ass. However, no one actually said anything and for that Greg was grateful.

Well, almost no one said anything.

Greg had been looking through his desk for the card Mycroft Holmes had given him when Jones came in, shutting the door behind him. He groaned as he settled himself in one of Greg’s visitor chairs.

“I’m getting too old for these early mornings,” he muttered.

“What, you want to give up the streets for a desk job?” Greg asked humorously, settling himself back in his chair.

Jones shrugged. “Been thinking about it. Thinking about transferring out of this division and settling down a bit.”

Greg’s grin faded. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Not yet,” Jones assured him. “Have to find and train someone to keep you out of trouble first. But in a year or two, maybe.”

Greg tried to imagine doing this job without Detective Sergeant Anthony Jones at his back. It was hard to picture.

“Not what I came to talk about, though,” Jones said. “Want to explain what’s going on?”

“In what way?” Greg asked. He knew, though. Knew this conversation was going to have to happen sooner or later.

“Well, for a starters, since when does your wife even know Sherlock much less care what happens to him?” Jones asked. “And why are we devoting so much energy to finding him?”

Greg sighed, rubbing his hands over his face before sitting up a little straighter.

“To answer the last one first,” he began, “Marjory Phelps knew something. Sherlock and her alpha were discussing the matter for some time before they left together. Kevin seems to be wanting to keep the details of what he and Sherlock are planning from his pack for fear that one or more of them would be killed if he told them too much. That suggests that they _are_ planning something or at least have a good idea of where to start looking for information. That’s information we need.”

Jones nodded. “Makes sense but why not just wait until they _do_ find something.”

“I’m not sure they’d tell us,” Greg admitted, finally putting his fear into words. “Kevin’s a very dominant alpha and an omega under his protection was murdered. Sherlock has had not one but two friends die at the hands of this guy. I think it’s not impossible that Kevin means to kill the guy. Even if he doesn’t actually mean to, he might not be able to stop himself if they find the killer before we find them.” He paused before continuing. “And I’m not sure that Sherlock would even try to stop him,” he added.

He didn’t say the rest out loud. The fact that he wasn’t certain, not _entirely_ certain, that Sherlock wouldn’t just fail to try and stop him. Greg was afraid that he might encourage him. That he might even help.

Jones was silent for a moment. “Okay,” he agreed finally. “I’m with you that far. The fact is, though, that you’re a hell of a lot more worried than that would account for. You may be hiding it well from the others but I knew you when you were still a new sergeant. You’re way more than just worried. And none of that answers how Ann knows him _or_ how you knew he was up to something at all. Never mind the fact that you apparently became aware that he was up to something in the middle of the night without his having contacted you.”

Greg sat back, trying to find the words.

“This doesn’t go beyond this room, okay,” he said and waited until Jones nodded his assent. “A little over a week ago Sherlock overdosed. He nearly died. Someone who knew him called me and I was able to get to him in time, but it was a close run thing.”

“The night I had to collect your car and bring it to you in hospital,” Jones guessed. Then his brow furrowed. “You said that was pack business.” There was a faint accusation in the tone. Jones hadn’t questioned Greg on the subject because Greg had simply held that it was to do with his pack and that he didn’t want to discuss it. Jones had respected his wishes.

“It was,” Greg assured him, not wanting Jones to think he’d lied to him. “Sherlock’s mine. He wasn’t officially a part of my pack at that point — although he is now — but with intrinsic bonds the paperwork is pretty much just a formality.”

“Intrinsic?” Greg’s sergeant demanded, clearly taken aback.

Greg couldn’t help but smile slightly at the incredulous tone. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “There are times I can barely believe it myself.”

Jones shook his head. “ _Sherlock_ is a member of your pack. Sherlock is an _intrinsic_ member of your pack.”

“Yes,” Greg confirmed. “And up until last night he was in rehab. They called me about five this morning to tell me that he’d disappeared. It’s not that any of the other reasons I gave you for wanting to find him aren’t true,” Greg insisted. “It’s just that they are only part of it. He’s been doing well, he’s through the worst of the withdrawal. He has a shot at getting clean and I’m not letting him fall off the wagon at this point. He belongs to me and it’s well past time I started taking my responsibilities seriously.”

Jones said nothing for a few moments.

“Well fuck, Greg,” he said finally, shaking his head. “The shit you get yourself into.” It was rare for Jones to call Greg by his given name and he only did so when either deeply worried or very surprised. Greg wasn’t sure that both didn’t apply in this case.

Then Jones gave a short laugh. “No wonder you don’t want the whole of the yard knowing he’s yours. You’d never get any work done for the complaints and demands that you do something about that insane pack member of yours. And if they knew he _really_ belonged to you… they’d all think you were as mad as a box of frogs.”

For some reason that struck Greg as funnier than it probably was and he laughed, honest and deep for the first time in days.

After Jones had left, still shaking his head over the apparent perversity of Greg’s nature that would make someone like Sherlock his, Greg remembered that he hadn’t put the card Holmes had given him in his desk. Pulling out his wallet he fished out the card and dialed the number.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,” a woman’s voice answered smoothly after only two rings. “I am sorry but Mr. Holmes is in a meeting just now. However, he had anticipated your call and has given me the authority to speak to you in his stead.”

There was something about the clipped, cool efficiency of the voice that was familiar.

“Is this Antonia?” he asked, remember the woman all too well.

“Yes, sir,” She answered smoothly. “Mr. Holmes would like you to know that he is aware of the situation. A courier should be with you shortly with the information we have on the younger Mr. Holmes’ whereabouts. However, as he is well aware of both the locations of the city’s CCTV cameras and of how best to avoid them the information isn’t as complete as we would like.”

Greg found he was far less surprised that Mycroft Holmes had access to the city’s CCTV system than he probably should have been. While Greg himself could get a hold of them he had to go through a process of requisitioning them. It took time. Even then, it would have taken hours for him and his men to go through them all, even confining themselves to the areas Sherlock was mostly likely to be in. Holmes hadn’t only got the footage already but had clearly been able to have them sufficiently analysed in only a few hours.

“He was seen earlier this morning,” she continued, “near what the scene of the murder of one Gemma Caroline Felicity Pierson. He was seen some little time later about a mile from there speaking to an individual identified as Constable David Edward Fitzhugh. That was nearly two hours ago and he has not allowed himself to be filmed since.”

Constable Fitzhugh. Greg remembered him as a solid officer who had been the one to identify Felicity’s body. He worked the streets in that area.

“Was he alone?” Greg asked. He knew the answer but wanted it confirmed.

“No,” she replied. “As I believe you are already aware he was with an alpha by the name of Kevin Alphonse Saunders.”

Greg had to stifle the sudden urge to laugh. He wondered how many people were aware that Kevin’s middle name was Alphonse. He’d be willing to bet good money that it wasn’t many.

“Thank you,” he told Antonia.

“We are monitoring the CCTV system,” she told him, not bothering to acknowledge his gratitude. “Please do not hesitate to call if there is more we can do to facilitate your search. Good morning, Detective Inspector.” Without waiting for a reply, she hung up.

Greg didn’t waste any time.

He leaned out of his office and called over the first officer he saw.

“Carmichael, I need to talk to a Constable David Fitzhugh. And I need to talk to him as of two hours ago.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice that I have once again upped the Chapter count. *sigh*
> 
> Well, we're closing in on the end of the story now... and a killer. I hope you're all enjoying this.
> 
> This chapter's guest stars:
> 
> Thomas Gains ................................................... James McAvoy  
> Constable David Fitzhugh ................................. Daniel Mays 
> 
> Feedback? Please?

Before Greg could do more than sit back down at his desk, Donovan knocked at his door barely waiting for his nod before entering.

She had been sent out to interview a few of Thomas Gains’ known associates a couple of hours before. Now, she was flushed with triumph.

“We have him, sir,” she said. “Gains was shacked up with an underage omega at one of his friend’s places. I’ve just booked him for parole violation with the added bonus of statutory rape. The girl’s unharmed but I’ve had one of the female officers take her to hospital just in case. A social worker and someone from the sexual offences division will be meeting her there to take a statement.”

Greg was already up out of his chair. “Good work, Constable. Get him into interview, I want to talk to this guy as soon as possible. How old is the girl? Is she alright?”

“Fourteen,” the beta said, falling into step beside him. “She’s a runaway and is fine judging from the snark I got from her. I thought you’d want to talk to Gains right away so I’ve had him taken directly to interview room C.”

“Tell Jones what’s going on then join me in interview,” Greg told her. “You’ve earned a crack at the guy.”

Thomas Gains was a scruffy looking man, with a beard that clearly needed trimming and eyes already going bloodshot from drugs and alcohol abuse. There were, however, still signs that he’d once been a good looking man. He glared up at Greg as he took his place opposite him.

“We’re just going to wait a moment for my colleague to join us,” Greg told him, settling himself back in his seat to wait. 

He simply held the other alpha’s gaze until Gains dropped his in grudging submission.

Donovan joined them less than five minutes later.

Greg turned on the recorder then and read in the requisite information.

Then he nodded to Donovan to begin the questioning. Her eyes widened with pleased surprise before turning a predatory expression on Gains.

“So,” she said. “You like underage girls.”

Gains didn’t answer immediately, clearly both surprised and offended. Greg knew it wasn’t at the question. Right from the start in this interview Greg wanted to make damn sure Gains was at as much of a disadvantage as possible. He’d already established dominance in this situation, quietly forcing Gains’ submission. Now instead of questioning him himself, Greg had passed off the duty to a beta as though Gains wasn’t worth even the courtesy of talking to him himself. He wasn’t, as far as Greg was concerned but that wasn’t why he allowed Donovan to take the lead. Gains wasn’t new to interrogations. He had to know that if he didn’t answer he’d be taken to a holding cell until he was willing to talk to whoever was presented to him, no matter their permutation. However, if he answered Donovan he would be allowing himself to be treated as little more than a beta himself. 

While Greg wasn’t much bothered by those kinds of old-fashion distinctions, everything he’d learnt of Gains over the last few days convinced him that he would care. At least if Gains talked now he has another alpha present, showing he was at least worth that much of Greg’s time. He’d have no such assurance if he refused.

Gains’ internal battle over whether or not to answer seemed a difficult one.

“Said she was eighteen,” the man finally muttered belligerently, refusing to meet the eyes of either of his interviewers.

“Sure she did,” Donovan said. Greg could feel her nearly vibrating with excitement beside him but from across the table she would look calm and collected, as though she’d always expected Gains to answer. “Guess a girl that young was easier after being turned down by Agnes Liu.”

Gains squinted at Donovan, surprise making him look up in spite of himself. “Who?”

Either he was an excellent actor or the name didn’t mean anything to him.

Donovan pulled a picture out of a file and pushed it across the table.

Gains looked down at it blankly. “Who’s she?” he asked.

“Come on,” Donovan said, with just a hint of a sneer in her voice. Enough to broadcast her contempt without pushing it so far that the alpha across from her would feel he had no choice but to fight back in order to save face. “You were on warning over at Abbott House over how you kept after her and the other omegas there. Must have been a slap in the face, having some junkie whore turn you down.”

Gains flushed with anger and he shoved the picture back across the table.

“What the hell is this about?” he demanded. “Yeah, there were a bunch of stuck up bitches at Abbott House. Thought being in rehab meant they didn’t have to treat alphas with any respect any more. So what?”

“Do you remember her?” Donovan asked, pushing the picture back across the table.

Gains glared down at it. Really looking at it for the first time, Greg thought. Finally he shrugged. “Sure, I think. Think she was in one of those stupid group therapy sessions. A right princess. So what?” he demanded again, glaring at the officers across from him.

“Where were you a week ago today?”

Gains seemed thrown by the apparent non sequitur. “The hell?”

“Can’t remember?” Donovan taunted.

“Of course, I can remember,” Gains snarled. For a moment he looked as though he would attack, pushed too far by the beta before him. Then he glanced at Greg out of the corner of his eyes, all too aware of the strength backing her.

He seemed to settle slightly. “It’s hazy,” he admitted. “Always is at that point.” It was his turn to sneer at Donovan. “Not that _you_ would know anything about that.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about what?” she responded, not losing her calm and slightly contemptuous demeanour.

“Heats,” Gains said. There was a hint of smugness in his tone now. “Carly was in heat a week ago.” He leered. “We had us some fun.”

Greg’s heart sank. If the omega Gains had been shacked up with really had been in heat a week ago there was no chance Gains could have killed Agnes. It was impossible for an alpha to drag him or herself away from an omega they were sharing a heat with. In fact, any attempt to separate the two could often prove deadly as the alpha would fight mindlessly to protect their breeding rights to the omega in question.

“And the night before last?” Donovan persisted.

“Party,” Gains said, still smug. “Some brew and a few friends. We were up all night. Little omega kept us all entertained.”

The idea of it turned Greg’s stomach. It was in an alpha’s nature to protect and that part of him was roused by the thought of an underage omega being shared around less than a week after her heat, when she would still have been recovering from the resulting physical and mental exhaustion.

Gains caught Greg’s expression and must have realised that his gloating was pushing the other alpha’s temper. He immediately looked away, shirking in on himself slightly.

“So, is that why you were hiding?” Greg demanded, speaking for the first time since the interview had begun. There was a tone in his voice that told anyone of lesser dominance not to push him. “Just to take advantage of a child and share her with your friends?”

Gains seemed confused. “Hiding?” he asked. He carefully did not make eye contact.

“You gave a fake address to your parole officer,” Donovan said. She’d straightened slightly in her seat at Greg’s tone. The sneer and contempt were gone now, her voice perfectly serious. “You gave yet another fake address to Abbott House. Sounds like hiding to me.”

Greg throttled back his temper knowing he’d unsettled the beta beside him. It wasn’t like him to get that angry that quickly but he was already on edge with worry, his instincts to protect already roused by the situation with Sherlock. It probably wasn’t all that surprising that the thought of what Gains had been up to had tapped into that.

Gains’ lips compressed. He clearly didn’t want to answer that question but just as clearly was afraid not to with the more dominant alpha in the room already angry with him.

“You seemed to be going through a lot of effort to make sure we couldn’t find you,” Donovan pressed.

Gains squinted at her. “You?” he said. He shifted slightly in his seat and Greg realising that the man was embarrassed. “It’s not the cops I’m worried about.”

 

* * *

 

“Hiding out from an ex,” Donovan muttered in annoyance less than an hour later.

“Well,” Greg said reasonably. “He does clearly owe her a hell of a lot of money in back child support.”

His temper back under control, replaced by amusement at just how much Gains had squirmed when admitting he was hiding from yet another omega. 

Donovan just snorted.

“Besides,” Greg continued. “Everyone knows that even the biggest, scariest alpha is _nothing_ compared to an omega protecting the interests of her child.”

“It’s all fun and games until the omega gets pregnant,” Donovan commented, grinning.

Gains was a lowlife, that was clear enough. But he wasn’t, it seemed, a killer.

A quick call to the social worker with Carly Miller at hospital confirmed that the girl had indeed been in heat when Agnes was killed and that she had shared that heat with Gains. She also confirmed Gains’ alibi for the night of Margery’s death.

When Greg got back to his office, it was to find Constable Fitzhugh waiting just outside. He was dressed in street clothes rather than his uniform, obviously having come in while off duty. Greg was surprised. He’d wanted to talk to the man but he hadn’t expected him to come all the way down to the yard.

“Sir.” He nearly came to attention. “I was told that you needed to speak to me regarding Sherlock?”

“Come in,” Greg said, unlocking his door and shutting it again behind them.

He motioned to one of the visitor’s chairs and Fitzhugh took it, perching on the edge of his seat as though he still felt he should be at attention.

“You’re not in any trouble,” Greg assured him, taking his own seat. “I just need to find Sherlock and I was told that someone saw him talking to you earlier today.”

“I spoke to him,” he confirmed, seeming to be honestly confused. “He turned up about five-thirty this morning while I was still on duty. He was asking about some of the regulars in that area of town, particularly any who hadn’t been around much lately.”

“Was there anyone in particular that he was looking for?”

“Not really.” Fitzhugh furrowed his brow, thinking. “Although, he did seem interested in the fact that Domino recently turned up again.”

“Domino?” Greg asked.

Fitzhugh looked slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, that’s what everyone calls him on the street. His name is Terri Domin, so Domino. Anyway, he’s harmless enough, begs over near Paddington when he can but generally doesn’t sleep over that way. Been in and out of shelters for years.”

“Is he a drunk?” Greg asked, remembering what Benny had said about Margery having been talking to a “wino”.

“Yeah, he is.”

Greg nodded. “Would he have been anywhere around there the night Felicity died?”

“I… I don’t know.” Fitzhugh frowned. “It’s not impossible but she died in the middle of the night. And it was cold that night, I remember. He would have likely been bedded down someplace rather than wandering around.”

“You remember that night well?” Greg asked, faintly surprised.

Fitzhugh shrugged. “Kind of, yeah. I know you work homicides a lot but other than finding the occasional homeless person dead of cold or a junkie who ODed, I don’t see a lot of dead bodies on my beat. And seeing someone I knew like… like _that_.” He looked away, as though embarrassed that the death had affected him as deeply as it had.

“Even we don’t usually see them like that, thank God,” Greg told him, sympathetically. “I don’t think there’s an officer in the country who wouldn’t have taken a hard hit from what was in that room. I’m just asking because if you remember it well, you might be able to help me.”

“Whatever I can do,” Fitzhugh said, straightening up again. It was only then that Greg realised that he’d slumped a little at the mention of Felicity.

“You knew her well,” Greg guessed.

“I knew her,” Fitzhugh confirmed. “She was someone I saw around fairly regularly. I busted her once but generally…” He shrugged. “She was just around.”

Greg studied the officer in front of him. He’d been in the CID for long enough to know when he was being lied to.

“You knew her better than that.”

Fitzhugh looked away, clearly unhappy.

Finally, he sighed. “Look, I’ve worked the streets long enough to know better but…” When he met Greg’s eyes again, Greg could clearly see some internal mask drop. Suddenly the other officer seemed a great deal more tired and worn than he had a moment before and Greg remembered how quickly he’d left after identifying the woman’s body. At the time, Greg had simply put it down to the state of the body. It was just possible, though, that it had been more than that.

“No matter how hard you try to tell yourself not to care, there’s always one who gets under your skin, one you want to save,” Fitzhugh continued, finally allowing Greg to see the grief he felt. “Felicity was smart, she was too damn good to be some street whore. I wanted to help her. I tried to get her into facilities, into shelters. I just… I wanted to get her off the stuff, off the streets.”

Greg felt something in his gut clench.

“I know what you mean,” Greg told him. “Like you said, there’s always one that gets to you.”

“I got her into rehab once, in a decent facility only a few months before…” Fitzhugh shook his head. “She was back tricking for her highs in less than a month.”

They were both silent. A moment to mourn what had never been, the life Felicity might be living now if she’d stayed in rehab.

Finally, Fitzhugh pulled himself together. “Okay, I’ve thought and thought over all the things Felicity said in the weeks before she died,” Fitzhugh said, running a hand through his hair in agitation. “Trying to come up with anything that would help. If I’d thought of anything I would have come to you sooner, but honestly there’s nothing.”

“Then tell me about Domino,” Greg said. “You said he’d only recently been around again?”

“There’s not a whole lot to say. He’s a drunk who comes and goes. Sometimes he’s around and sometimes he’s not. He has his usual areas and the area where Felicity died is one of them. But he’s as likely to be in a half-dozen other places as there at any given time. It’s true that we haven’t seen him for a couple of months at this point but with him that doesn’t mean a whole lot. It’s not unusual for him to get into a shelter or even attempt rehab if it gets him off the streets when it’s really cold. And considering how cold this winter has been I really didn’t think anything about it. It’s starting to warm up again now, though, and he’s turned up again.”

“Did he disappear before or after Felicity’s death though?” Greg asked.

Fitzhugh stared off toward the city beyond Greg’s windows, brows furrowed in thought for some time. Finally, he shook his head, looking back to Greg. “I’m sorry, sir. I honestly don’t know. I don’t really pay all that much attention to him. He’s harmless, like I said. It would have been around the time she’d died, before the big storm. That’s all I’m sure about.”

Fitzhugh worked in a tough area. Greg knew he’d have enough people of genuine concern to the police to worry about than one drunk who never harmed anyone.

“When did he turn up again?”

“That I do remember,” Fitzhugh said. “It was when things warmed up there for a few days a bit more than a week ago. I’d just heard on the news that it was supposed to get colder again and I remember thinking that he’d been faked out by the warmth.” The smile he gave Greg was still tired, but there was enough genuine humour there for Greg to see the police officer who’d come to care about a junkie whore with a quick wit and a sharp edged sense of humour.

Greg remembered pausing outside the building where Anges died, enjoying the warmth of the sun before going in to face a slaughter.

Margery would have still been alive then. It was during that time she’d sent Benny to find Sherlock because she’d discovered something.

“You think he saw something?” Fitzhugh asked.

“It’s possible. Was there anyone else Sherlock asked about or seemed particularly interested in?”

“He did ask about Badger, or rather Kyle… Something. Sorry, I can’t remember his last name off the top of my head but it’ll be in our records. He’s not exactly a regular in that area but not unknown in it either. Sherlock lost interest when I told him that he’s being held pending trial for passing bad cheques.”

“When did he go in?” Greg asked.

“More than a month ago,” Fitzhugh answered. “And if this is about the murders then he would have been in during the last two. Although that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have seen something when Felicity died.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Greg said. Quickly he ran down what they knew about what Margery had told Benny and Kevin.

Fitzhugh absorbed the information quietly, eyes narrowed as he considered the situation.

“I see why he wanted to talk to Domino,” he said thoughtfully. He nodded. “I think he’d be the most likely possibility. Badger would have been a good second choice if he weren’t in at the moment. Others…” He shook his head. “There’s Old Gerry, although I don’t know that I’d call him a wino. He’s a junkie, but he might be worth sounding out. I don’t know his last name but there are others I know who will.”

“Did he come up when you were talking to Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Fitzhugh confirmed. “Not in any particular way but his name came up.”

“And you know where to find either Domino or Old Gerry?”

“Yes and no. These guys don’t have permanent addresses or jobs. But I know their usual hangouts and the people who’d be most likely to know where to find them.”

Fitzhugh took a deep breath before meeting Greg squarely in the eyes. “I’m off duty at the moment but… I’d like to help. I know this area and its people. I’ve worked the streets there for nearly ten years now. I’m happy to donate my free time. There won’t be any need for overtime or anything like that. I just…”

“You want a hand in bringing Felicity’s killer to justice,” Greg finished for him.

Greg didn’t need to think about his answer. “We’d welcome the help Constable. But you won’t be doing this on your free time. I’ll contact your commanding officer and request you for a few days. I can’t promise OT but I’ll see you paid for the hours you put in.”

He stood up and held out his hand to Fitzhugh who stood and accepted it, looking slightly surprised. It wasn’t often that an alpha in a position of authority over a beta shook hands with them. Being treated as though he were an equal clearly came as a shock to Fitzhugh.

“Pending approval from your supervisor, welcome aboard.”

Fitzhugh’s grip was firm but Greg detected strong emotions held in check behind the other officer’s eyes.

“Thank you, sir.”

Greg told Fitzhugh were to find the conference room they were set up in, but as he turned to leave Greg spoke.

“Were you lovers?” he asked. It wasn’t really his business but he felt it was important for him to know just how deep in Fitzhugh had been with their victim.

The beta stiffened but shook his head. “No,” he said softly, not looking back at Greg. “It’s not that she didn’t offer but…” He trailed off. “I wanted to help her,” he said again. “I wouldn’t take advantage of her.”

He’d been in love with her, Greg reflected sadly.

“Maybe if…” Then he shook his head. “She was an omega.” His tone suggested that was all there was to it.

Greg supposed in a way he was right. Society expected alphas to bond with omegas and betas to stick to their own. And Greg was all too aware that while he could get away with marrying a beta without too much trouble due to his dominance things were a lot harder for a beta and omega couple, even now.

“My wife’s a beta,” Greg told him wanting the man to understand that, alpha though he may be, he didn’t judge him for what he’d felt.

Fitzhugh finally looked back at him, clearly surprised. 

He seemed about to say something before simply nodding, accepting Greg’s subtle offer of sympathy and support.

With a renewed sense of the urgency of the situation Greg rang Fitzhugh’s superior to secure the Constable’s help for the next several days while the officer in question headed to the conference room.

It was only after he’d talked to the man that something that had been teasing at the back of his mind for some few minutes finally made itself known.

Fitzhugh was bent over some files with Donovan when Greg hurried in.

“You said that you got Felicity into a rehab centre at one point,” he said without preamble. 

“I did,” Fitzhugh confirmed, straightening up.

“When?” Greg asked. “And where?”

“I got her a place in Abbott House a couple of months before she died.”

“Abbott House?” Jones demanded.

“Call the director,” Greg told Jones. “I want all the records for Jemma Felicity Pierson and anyone and everyone who was there at the time. Donovan, take a uniform and head over there. Help copy out the damn files if necessary, I want them yesterday.”

“Tell me everything,” he said, turning back to Fitzhugh. “Why Abbott House, how long was she there and why did she leave.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity had gone into Abbott House back in the autumn. She’d been there for only twelve days before leaving to stay with a fellow hooker. Within another month she’d been back on the streets.

The choice of Abbott House was based on simple expediency. It had a good reputation and had had an opening at the time. While Fitzhugh knew of no trouble at Abbott House, no reason beyond her addiction that drove Felicity out of it, Greg wasn’t going to be satisfied with that.

He dug out Alex Cartwright’s number but only got his answer service. He left a message for Alex to call him back at the first opportunity regarding another previous patient.

Jones reported that the director was not happy but was going to comply with Greg’s demand for more files anyway.

It was still another two hours before Donovan returned with a box of files. Another would be forthcoming later but Donovan decided to return with the basics so they could get a start on them instead of waiting for all of them now. A decision Greg heartily approved of.

After a quick briefing with the new larger team, Greg divided everyone up. He sent Jones with Fitzhugh to see about finding Domino and Old Gerry to see what they may or may not know as well as to ask around for any other possibles for Margery’s “wino”. Two of the uniforms he currently had were sent to interview a few friends of Patrick Martin, who was still in the wind.

He set Donovan and the remaining uniform, Constable Akers, to start working on the new files, cross-referencing them with those from Agnes’ stay at Abbott House.

Greg himself began going through the CCTV footage Holmes’ courier had delivered while Greg was talking to Fitzhugh. There was little enough on them and so it took Greg less than a half an hour to go through.

The first time Sherlock and Kevin showed up was when they talked to Fitzhugh, the time stamp on that being 05:36. A bit more than an hour later, at 06:42 they appeared again crossing a street two blocks from Abbott House.

Greg found himself studying those images, grainy as they were, looking for any indication that Sherlock wasn’t alright. He looked fine but there was just no way to know if he was sober or not.

Knowing this line of thought to be unprofitable, Greg pull himself away from the recordings and joined Donovan going through the files from Abbott House.

He hadn’t even realised that the afternoon was waning until Ann showed up. She was out of work and knowing Greg wouldn’t be coming home for dinner that night and would be unlikely to allow his officers to do so either, had brought pizza.

While he, Donovan and Akers were debating whether to call Jones and the rest out of the field for pizza or not, Bradstreet strode in.

“This just arrived for you,” she said, dropping a small package on the table in front of Greg before diving into the pizza without being inviting.

“Help yourself,” Greg grouched good-naturedly.

“Don’t mind if I do,” the other DI said between bites. She nodded to Ann who nodded back with evident amusement.

Inside the package a hand written note accompanied a disk. The handwriting almost looked like examples of Victorian copperplate Greg had seen.

Sherlock and his companion surfaced again briefly. I do hope you are able to catch up with him soon.

\- Mycroft Holmes

Greg passed the note to Ann before taking the disk over to where an old television with an even older DVD player sat on a cart in the corner.

“That the brother?” Bradstreet asked, looking at the note over Ann’s shoulder as Greg put in the disk.

“Yes,” Ann confirmed.

As Greg had expected the disk contained more CCTV footage, this time of a much better neighbourhood a decent ways from any of the crime scenes. The time stamp on this was 17:21, not quite an hour ago. The neighbourhood was a fairly safe one with small flats and even smaller homes. What he could be looking for there Greg had no idea.

Sherlock could be seen emerging from an alley and entering to a block of flats. Kevin was still with him, for which Greg thanked God. There was no more video than that. They were either still in those flats, doubtful Greg thought, or they’d left another way.

“Find me what you can on those flats,” Greg told the uniform who nodded and headed out of the conference room, taking his pizza with him.

“What could he want there?” Donovan asked.

Greg just shook his head before turning off the television and sitting back down at the table. He wanted to go tearing off to those flats right away, but he knew better. It was unlikely that Sherlock was still there and Greg’s energy was much better spent here, going over the files from Abbott House.

Bradstreet pulled out a chair as well. “Okay, so what are we doing?”

Greg wasn’t about to turn down the offer of help, especially from an investigator of Bradstreet’s calibre.

It didn’t take long to bring Bradstreet up to date.

“Did any of the others stay at Abbott House?” Ann asked, looking over Greg’s shoulder at the files spread on the table before him, one hand absently threading through his hair.

“No,” Greg said. “But then only these two victims were addicts. However, it isn’t far from where both the first and third victims lived and they did a lot of outreach to the homeless community in that area, providing food, clothing, medical care, that kind of thing. They don’t always have names for all of the people who use those services. So it’s not impossible that the others did make use of the facility or its outreach programs without there being a record of it.”

“Then again,” Donovan said, reaching for another slice of pizza, “all the deaths were in the same area and Abbott House is the closest rehab facility to that area. It’s not impossible that we are dealing with coincidence.”

Greg made a face. “True enough.”

Ann shook her head.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to help,” Ann said wistfully.

Greg understood. If he was her he would have dreaded the prospect of sitting home at this point as well. In fact, he would have been climbing the walls within an hour and thought that Ann would probably be the same.

“Coffee?” Bradstreet suggested hopefully. “The real stuff that is, not the sludge we get here at the yard.”

“Coffee would be amazing,” Greg said gratefully.

Ann sighed, clearly caught between gratitude at something productive that she could do to help and disappointment that it was no more than getting the others coffee.

“I’ll be back soon.”

Akers was back in minutes with the information that the tenants of that particular block of flats included one Alex Cartwright. Sherlock and Kevin must have found out about Felicity’s time in Abbott House and, like Greg, wanted to talk to the one member on staff there who genuinely seemed to care about the people at the facility.

Greg swore and pulled out his phone, calling the young nurse again. Again he got the man’s answer phone. Again, he left a message that Alex call him as soon as he could. This time he gave him his private mobile number.

Ann delivered coffee a short time later and then reluctantly headed home.

When Greg’s phone rang not long after he snatched it up eagerly. The number was one he didn’t recognise but then he wouldn’t have expected to know any number Alex used.

“Lestrade.”

“We’re going to need a few officers…” the voice on the other end began.

Greg shot to his feet without even realising it.

“Sherlock!” he shouted into the phone. _“ **Where the hell are you?!** ”_


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're finally closing in on the end here. So, buckle your seatbelts and settle in for the ride.
> 
> FEEDBACK IS LIFE!

It had been more than twelve hours since the call from Colwith telling Greg that Sherlock had disappeared.

Twelve hours of facing the twin fears of Sherlock’s falling off the wagon on one hand and becoming a victim of the very killer he sought on the other. The former holding nearly as much potential to be as fatal as the later.

Twelve hours when he’d found himself sitting across his desk hearing the pain and grief in the voice of another officer. A man who had tried to save another junkie and who had had to be the one to identify what was left of her body when they’d found her.

Twelve hours where he had had to focus, had to think, no matter what he felt. Twelve hours when he couldn’t afford to allow the fear, anger and betrayal he felt to influence his actions.

Twelve hours when he’d been unable to admit, even to himself, just how afraid he really was.

“ _ **Tell me where you are,**_ ” Greg demanded, pouring every bit of dominance and authority he had into the Command.

There was a sound from the other end of the line. Not a gasp, not quite. Just a quick sip of breath that nonetheless betrayed the impact of the Command on its recipient.

Greg had never dared to use even the lightest of Commands on Sherlock, knowing that some part of the trust between them would break under the weight of it.

Right now, though, he didn’t care. Sherlock has pushed him too far one too many times. He would never require or even want Sherlock to be subservient. Hell, he didn’t even expect to be treated with the modicum of respect he would expect for from any other member of his pack. He had no interest in or intention of running the omega’s life or dictating what he could and couldn’t do in anyway. Sherlock was free to do as he chose, except in one respect. Sherlock’s safety wasn’t just his own concern, it was Greg’s as well. As his alpha there was nothing Greg wouldn’t do to protect him, even — perhaps especially — from himself. Sherlock’s wellbeing was Greg’s responsibility now and it was something he _wasn’t_ willing to compromise over.

In the back of his mind Greg was well that there would be hell to pay for giving Sherlock a Command. He didn’t care. All he cared about at the moment was getting the omega back safely so he could live to give Greg that hell.

Sherlock’s whereabouts — one of the least desirable areas of Isington — came in a half gasp, wrenched form the man on the other end of the line. Without the impact of Greg’s presence, and more importantly his pheromones, the strength of the Command would be greatly diminished. The nature of the bond between them, however, meant that Greg’s voice alone was enough to force Sherlock to give him any information he needed.

Greg grabbed a pen and scrawled the location on the nearest piece of paper.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sherlock nearly snarled and Greg could hear a shadow of his own sense of betrayal in the voice. “I would have told you without that.”

“Would you have?” Greg demanded.

“ _Yes._ ” The answer was a snarl this time.

“And will you still be there when I get there?” 

There was no answer from the other end of the line, which was answer enough.

“God dammit, Sherlock…!”

“You’ll need a crime scene team when you get here,” Sherlock said, the anger banked but still evident in his tone. Greg’s stomach dropped but Sherlock answered the question that sprang to his lips before he could answer it. “It’s not another victim. Well, not another omega anyway. It’s hard to tell with the body in this state but I believe we’ve found someone you were looking for. Patrick Martin. His throat has been cut just like the others, though. I’d say he’s been dead for three or four days at this point. His body was hidden in the trash under a bridge.”

“I’m on my way,” Greg said. “ **Be there when I get there, damnit.** ”

Sherlock’s voice was strained when he answered. “You know that with only your voice I’ll be able to throw off the compulsion to obey the minute we’re off the phone.”

Greg did know it, had known it was a stupid thing to say the moment it was out of his mouth. Many omegas would be unable to throw off a compulsion this strong from their paper alpha, much less an intrinsic one. But Sherlock wasn’t most omegas. 

“ **Tell me where you are going.** ”

The answer given, Sherlock hung up before Greg could Command him to stay on the phone until Greg got there which would have been Greg’s next move. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Sherlock had figured that out and that was exactly why he’d hung up.

He swore roundly, staring down at the two addresses. He’d just grabbed the closest piece of paper and written in the margins.

Only now did he realise what it was. It was a photocopy of a report from the man who’d run one of the group therapy sessions while Felicity was in Abbott House and stated, among other things, that while she was cooperative there was little sign she actually wanted to kick her addiction. She simply didn’t seem to care. And as long as she didn’t care, there was little chance of her actually succeeding.

He shoved the worries that report tapped into ruthlessly away. That was a problem for another day, one of so many he had yet to face and deal with.

“Donovan…” he began and looked up.

There were three betas in the room with him. Each one a seasoned officer and none of them belonging to Greg. 

The only one of the three still in their seat was Bradstreet, but she was pale and her face was strained with the effort it had taken. Donovan and Akers had both been driven to their knees by the force of Greg’s dominance.

A great deal of the anger drained to be replaced by dismay. He wasn’t the kind of alpha to demand or even want the abasement of those around him. Not a single member of his pack had knelt to him when they’d acknowledged his claim. Frankly, he hadn’t wanted them to any more than they had wanted to do so themselves. He’d certainly never _forced_ anyone to their knees before except in the execution of his duties as an officer. And even then, only when there was no other way. He’d certainly never done it by accident. And he’d _never_ done it to anyone who wasn’t an imminent threat.

He opened his mouth, but Bradstreet spoke before he could. Her tone was firm even if her voice trembled ever so slightly.

“Donovan, go arrange for a crime scene team. Akers, go call Detective Sargent Jones. Let him know what’s going on. Tell him that unless he’s in the middle of something he’s to get himself and that constable back here, I have a feeling we’ll be needing them.”

The two officers jumped to do as they were told, scurrying out of the room without raising their eyes as they did so.

Greg shut his own eyes. “I’m…” he was cut off.

“Don’t apologise,” Bradstreet said. She raised hands that trembled and wiped them over her face. “It’s not your fault.”

“I never meant to…” he waved a hand toward the floor. “You know I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“I know and so do they.” She met his eyes squarely. Greg was relieved to see no sign of fear there. “I don’t think there’s anyone at the yard who doesn’t know that you _earn_ the respect you’re shown. But because of that honestly I don’t think any of us realised just _how_ strong you are.” She shook her head. “Jesus Christ, Greg. I don’t think there’s anyone in this building you couldn’t drop if you really wanted to, alphas included. Just give them a little time to get over the shock it. I think knowing what you _could_ do if you wanted will only make them respect you the more for not doing it. Besides, under the circumstances no one can blame you. This is sodding _Sherlock_ we’re talking about. They’ll be drinking to you for doing it.”

Greg’s lips twitched as he relaxed slightly.

Bradstreet took a deep breath, her voice and hands once again steady as she pushed herself to her feet. “Now, do you want me to come with you, handle the new crime scene or keep working on these files?”

 

* * *

 

Greg knew Sherlock wouldn’t be where he said he’d be heading to next. All the Greg’s Command could do was force Sherlock to tell him where he’d been _planning_ on going. It certainly wouldn’t stop Sherlock from changing his mind after he told Greg. And Greg had little doubt that he’d done so, out of pique if nothing else.

He still had to check the place out, however, if only to see if he could figure out what Sherlock had wanted with the place.

First, though, he accompanied Bradstreet to the new crime scene, wanting to get a look at the victim. Bradstreet had offered to take primary on this death and Greg was happy to let her have it. He didn’t feel he could afford to spend all night processing the new scene. Besides, there was always the possibility that this death was entirely unrelated to the investigation at hand and Greg already had too much on his plate to be able to take on another case right now. And if it was related, as did seem highly probable, Greg knew he could trust Bradstreet to share whatever she found and not to quibble about the collar as long as the killer was off the streets.

Greg had directed Jones back to the yard to take over going through the records they had with Akers while Donovan headed back to Abbott House to hurry up the process of getting the rest of the files they’d asked for. Fitzhugh he’d ordered to meet he and Bradstreet in Isington.

It was getting dark now, the sun having only just dipped beneath the horizon when they arrived, deepening the shadows and casting the world in shades of purple and blue.

The foot bridge was old and covered in graffiti. The garbage of decades seemed to have collected beneath, the smell nearly enough on its own that it seemed no one had noticed that there was a body rotting down there as well. In amongst bits of broken furniture, bent supermarket trolleys and other less identifiable detritus, what was left of a man lay. While things weren’t as cold as they had been, the nights had still been chilly enough to slow the decomposition process somewhat. Still, that didn’t make him a pretty sight.

A mattress seemed to have been lying over the body but had already been moved aside to expose it when they arrived.

Sherlock was clearly long gone but they’d expected that.

Bradstreet looked back and forth between the body and the picture they had of Patrick Martin.

“We’ll need finger prints to confirm at this point,” she said, grimly. “Still, Sherlock’s rarely wrong about these things and it definitely looks like Mr. Martin.”

Putting a treated mask over his nose and mouth in a futile attempt not to be overwhelmed by the smell of decomposition, Greg squatted under the footbridge to get a better look at the scene. It was dark enough to need a flashlight under the bridge, though the world beyond still glowed with the final diffuse light of the recently set sun.

“Wasn’t killed here,” Greg commented. “Not nearly enough blood.”

“Why kill him at all?” Fitzhugh asked, having arrived while Greg and Bradstreet spoke.

Greg stepped away from the body and gratefully backed out from under the bridge. He handed the mask and flashlight to Bradstreet and stood next to Fitzhugh as she took her turn getting a better look at the body.

“He left Abbott House the day after Agnes Liu,” Greg told him. “As a beta with no violent history he wasn’t really considered a likely suspect. For the most part we just wanted to talk to him on the off-chance he might have seen something.”

Bradstreet joined them just as the crime scene techs pulled up. “Well, I’d say that it looks like he probably did, poor bastard. That slice across the neck looks an awful lot like the killing stroke on your victims.”

“It does,” Greg agreed. “It’s not entirely impossible that this is a coincident but I seriously doubt it.”

He turned to Bradstreet. “You got this?” he asked.

“Yep.”

Greg nodded. “Fitzhugh, with me.”

The constable fell into step beside him. Greg had driven over with Bradstreet so they headed to the car Fitzhugh had arrived in.

“Where to?” he asked.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Greg said, holding his hand out for the keys.

 

* * *

 

The place Sherlock had been heading to was unusual among the places Greg had been visiting lately. Here an older building was actually in the process of being refurbished instead of simply being left to rot.

It took longer than Greg would have liked to contact the owners and get permission to enter the premises. Frankly, he knew he was lucky they gave it at all, but the possibility that they may have an intruder was good incentive to allow the police to make sure that wasn’t the case.

Then it took even longer for someone to actually show up with keys to let them in. Full dark had long since fallen by the time the crew foreman arrived with the keys.

The structure had been stripped to the bones and plastic sheeting covered windows and flapped rather eerily in doorways. No overhead lights had yet been installed and the free standing flood lights the construction workers used cast strange shadows and produced an almost underwater effect where they shone through the plastic.

It looked like something out of a horror movie, Greg reflected with a kind of grim amusement. One could almost expect someone with a chainsaw to be hiding in here somewhere.

“Are you sure he really was planning on coming here?” Fitzhugh asked, clearly confused. Greg couldn’t blame him.

“I’m sure,” Greg said, poking into yet another room.

There was no sign of Sherlock or Kevin, which Greg had expected. But there was also no sign of why Sherlock would have been planning to come to this location at all.

Fitzhugh stepped across a room on the second floor and peered out a small gap where the plastic over the window didn’t quite meet the frame.

“Not many residences,” he commented. “This place is pretty deserted at night but it’s still definitely an economic step up from where the killer hunts.”

Greg paused, looking around the room again.

It would be a good area to commit a crime if you wanted privacy but all their victims had died where they were found. The site foreman, an alpha who had introduced himself as Tim Hogue, came up the stairs behind them.

“There’s no one here,” the man said, clearly annoyed at being called out well after hours. “What’s more I can’t see that anybody has been. Nothing’s out of place and the alarm system is fine.”

Frowning, Greg headed past the man and up to the fourth floor, Fitzhugh on his heels and Hogue following more slowly behind them.

Heading over to the windows here, Greg found another gap between the plastic and the frame and looked out.

Less than a mile from the second crime scene, but Fitzhugh was right that this neighbourhood seemed a world away. The businesses had closed for the day, leaving the streets mostly empty. Nonetheless, there was still a sense of an area that bustled during the day. This wasn’t the only building being refurbished either. Another was farther along in the process just down the street, signs already advertising the opening of a Costa. While there was still more graffiti here than in the more respectable areas of town, the lack of trash, prostitutes and beggars suggested an area that was working hard to pull itself up the economic ladder.

As Fitzhugh had observed, however, there was little vehicular traffic and even fewer pedestrians on the street at this hour, the shops that lined it long since closed up for the night.

“This building is taller than most of the others here,” Greg commented. “It’d be a damn good place for a stake out.”

“Staking out what though?”

Greg shook his head. “I’m not sure. Call Jones, I want to know who owns, rents, frequents or occasionally drives past the buildings surrounding this one. Then I want to know if any of those people have any connection to any of the people or places involved in the case.”

While Fitzhugh called Jones, Greg walked over to where Hogue stood leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.

He was a very tall man with long hair pulled back in a queue and the accent of Irishman who’d left the country some time ago but had never quite shaken the lilting tones.

“Has there been any reason to believe anyone has been in here who shouldn’t any time in the last month?”

Hogue shook his head. “No,” he said decisively. “My men would’ve told me if anything was out of place.”

Greg nodded. “I expected as much. If I’m right, someone planned on using this place to stakeout somewhere in the vicinity tonight.”

“There’s no one here,” Hogue told him firmly.

“That’s probably because we are,” Greg said.

Hogue gave a grudging nod. “Yeah, okay. So, you’ll be wanting to use the building, I take it.” He sounded resigned.

“If you think that could be arranged. I don’t have the authority to demand the use of the place, but I am requesting it.”

“Don’t suppose there’s a chance of you using someone else’s building for all this,” the man muttered but then waved Greg to silence before he could answer. “Let me call me boss.”

“I appreciate the understanding,” Greg said, well aware that Hogue and his employer were being unusually accommodating about all this. 

“My dad was a cop,” Hogue explained, as he pulled out his mobile. “I know enough about the job to know I wouldn’t want to do it and to have respect for those that do.”

“Thanks,” Greg told him, before turning back to Fitzhugh.

“He’s running the search now, sir,” Fitzhugh said, holding the phone away from his ear. “Bradstreet rushed checking the corpse’s fingerprints against Martin’s. They’re a match. Also, while we’ll have to wait for the ME’s report to be sure, one of the coroner’s men on scene worked on two of the previous victims. He says that the cut was right to left and done with near surgical precision, just like the others. The weapon is likely to be a scalpel or something very much like it. He says it looks exactly like what killed the others.”

Greg was unsurprised.

 

* * *

 

It took another hour to wrangle permission from the building’s owners to stay. They only gave in after Hogue agreed to stay with the police officers and make sure they didn’t damage anything. 

“You’re damn lucky I didn’t have any plans this evening,” the alpha told Greg with a sort of surly humour.

Setting the scene took even longer. The last thing they wanted was to scare anybody off. Fitzhugh and Greg had arrived in an unmarked car and neither wore uniforms. Still, Greg felt it was important that they be seen to leave and that the building looked unoccupied. Greg knew they were taking a risk and that he’d be in for it if this didn’t pan out. But there was something here or near here and the chances that Sherlock would come sometime tonight, with whatever information he’d managed to glean during the day, were high.

Accordingly, they left openly with Hogue locking up behind them about an hour after arriving. Greg and Fitzhugh met Hogue out back of the building twenty minutes later and entered carefully, using only flashlights, and those sparingly so that no light would show in the windows.

Sitting in the dark in a room on the fourth floor, carefully monitoring what they could see through the plastic over the windows and the few spaces where they could see between the plastic and the window frames, Greg wondered not for the first time if he was even on the right track. It was the only thing he could think of, though. There was no other reason he could see that Sherlock would have been headed here. Even if there was something in the building itself he was after he’d have to come at some point, so actually being on site was the only likelihood.

Greg had offered Fitzhugh the chance to pack it in for the night, but the Constable had refused which hadn’t surprised Greg.

So far, the searches of the owners and renters of the buildings around them had come up empty for anyone with any connection to any of their victims, witnesses or locations.

They’d been there about an hour when Greg’s mobile chimed. The text was from an unknown number.

`Are you set up at the construction site yet?  
SH`

`WHERE ARE U?`

`Not far. Who’s with you?  
SH`

Greg took another breath to calm his annoyance.

`Fitzhugh. Is Kevin with u?`

`Yes. Doesn’t know I’m texting you so DON’T CALL. Can you see the pharmacy on the corner?  
SH`

Greg shifted to the other side of the window. He pulled out his pocket knife and made a small hole in the plastic over the window. Hogue made a small sound of disapproval. 

“The department will pay for it,” Greg said, without turning around. Now he could see the corner and the Lloyd’s Pharmacy next to a Spar which occupied the actual corner shop front.

`Yes`

`There are some rooms above the shops. Only the one over the Pharmacy is rented.  
SH`

“I need to know who’s renting the room over the Lloyd’s Pharmacy,” Greg told Fitzhugh.

`Why do u not want Kevin to know u r txting me?`

It was a moment or two before his phone pinged again.

`Secured his help by promising to help him kill the killer.  
SH`

Greg hissed out a breath, but he couldn’t say he was surprised.

“Donovan is checking now,” Fitzhugh said. He nodded toward Greg’s phone. “Is that Sherlock?”

“Yes, he’s staked out somewhere close to here.” Greg filled him in quickly. Looking down at the text on his phone, he suddenly remembered Sherlock texting back and forth with Bradstreet while on the way to Colwith and an idea occurred to him.

`Did u call me earlier just so I would order you to tell me where u were headed?`

Another minute passed before the answer.

`Of course. Command doesn’t work via text.  
SH`

“You little shit,” Greg muttered. At the questioning look from Fitzhugh, Greg just shook his head. Then the other’s attention was back on his phone again.

“Yes, I’m still here,” he said. He nodded as he listened before looking back at Greg. “The rooms are rented to an Eileen Dunn, aged 68, beta, no criminal. Donovan says they don’t have any more information than that on her yet. They’ve been working on too many people at once.”

“Tell them to drop the others for the moment,” he said as he texted Sherlock again.

`Who is Eileen Dunn?`

`Not involved. Didn’t rent the rooms.  
SH`

`Who did?`

`Her son.  
SH`

`And her son is who????`

There was no response.

“Sherlock says that Eileen Dunn’s son was the one who actually rented the rooms. I need to know who that is,” Greg told Fitzhugh.

As Fitzhugh relayed the orders, Greg saw a glimmer of light in one of the windows of the room they were watching. “Someone’s in there,” he said. “Just in case, I want you to put your phone on vibrate and have Donovan text you any information.”

While his orders were relayed, Greg glanced toward Hogue who was watching them with obvious interest. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “You can lock up and go home when we leave.”

Looking back toward the window he tensed. Two figures were carefully making their way toward the door recessed into the wall beside the Lloyd’s. It was dark and they were careful to stay out of the direct shine of the street lights but Greg would know Sherlock’s gawky form anywhere.

“There’s Sherlock.”

Fitzhugh was at his heels as he made his way down the stairs, struggling not to run flat out. Going arse over tits down the stairs wasn’t going to help anyone at this point. But knowing Sherlock was so close, knowing that their killer likely was as well…

The night had chilled noticeably even in the hour and half they’d waited inside and Greg’s breath steamed in the air.

Sherlock and Kevin were already gone but sprinting across the street Greg found that they’d left the door unlocked.

Greg didn’t stop to think about procedure or not having a warrant. As he jerked open the door to reveal a set of steep stairs there was shout from above and a crash.

He sprinted up the stairs and through the open door to the left of the landing at the top.

The living room of the small flat was bare but for a table and chair set in the middle of the room, both looked to have been stained with blood. And on the shelves on the opposite wall…

The jars were large, more like the size of fishbowls. Most were empty but floating in the sealed containers of six were what Greg could only just recognise as female reproductive organs.

“Six,” he heard Fitzhugh mutter. “Dear God, he killed _six_.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the home stretch now. Writing this has been a real roller-coaster ride for me as I've NEVER written something this long and involved before. I hope you are all still enjoying it.
> 
> As always, all thanks and praise go to the incomparable Coian, the most wonderful beta reader anyone could have.

The shock of the grisly display didn’t keep Greg still for more than a heartbeat as a shout came from what was likely the flat’s single bedroom.

There was a thud as of something hitting the wall.

“Call for backup,” he told Fitzhugh as he sprinted across the small front room.

Greg nearly stumbled over Sherlock’s legs as he rushed through the door.

A streetlight just outside the window was the only illumination but it was enough to see the bare room and the three people in it.

Kevin was the worse for wear, pale with circles beneath his eyes and a spit lip.

A smaller man lay pinned on the floor beneath him, scrabbling ineffectually at the alpha’s hands around his throat.

Sherlock lay beside the door, clearly having attempted to intervene and been knocked back.

“Stop!”

Greg launched himself across the room.

The other alpha howled as Greg grabbed him around the waist and tried to pull him off his victim. 

Sherlock darted forward, slapping his cupped hands over Kevin’s ears.

Kevin gasped, shaking his head.

His grip loosened just a little.

Greg reached around and grabbed both of his wrists, digging his thumbs into the pressure points there and twisting.

Another roar as Kevin’s hands left the throat of the other man.

He swung wildly back at Greg, trying to get away.

“I said stop, damnit! It’s DI Lestrade. It’s the police. Stop.”

Sherlock was already dragging Kevin’s victim away and Fitzhugh was beside Greg. Between them they wrestled the enraged alpha to the floor.

“It’s over,” Greg said as they held him pinned on his stomach. “Kevin, it’s over. We have him. He’ll pay but not like this. You have a pack that needs you. Think about the other members of your pack, the people you are responsible for.”

Kevin took a deep breath and shuttered before slumping, no longer struggling. The reminder of his pack having clearly got through to him as Greg had hoped it would.

The man Kevin had been attacking lay curled on his side now, choking and gasping, his hands at this throat. Sherlock sat on the floor next to him glancing back and forth between him and Kevin. He looked worried still but Greg couldn’t blame him for that.

Greg was finally able to turn his attention to the man. As he drew in a deep breath to steady himself he realised to his surprise that he was a beta. All this time they’d been assuming they were looking for an alpha. While beta serial killers weren’t unknown they were rare and usually hunted other betas. It was typically only alpha serial killers that targeted omegas.

Sherlock snorted, clearly knowing exactly what he was thinking. “Of course, he’s a beta, don’t be stupid. The victims weren’t expecting an attack until it was too late. They never would have been caught so off-guard by an alpha.”

Greg simply rolled his eyes. There was no point in asking why Sherlock hadn’t shared that thought before now.

“Okay,” Kevin said, drawing Greg’s attention back. “I’m… I’m okay. You can let go now.”

Greg hesitated only a moment before releasing the other alpha and nodding to Fitzhugh to do the same. Fitzhugh was far too pale, his attention focused not on the alpha but on the other beta.

“Is that him then?” he asked Sherlock, as though unable to keep the question back any longer. “He’s the one that killed Felicity?”

“Yes.”

Greg pushed himself up and knelt down beside the suspect.

His breathing was easier now and he turned his head looking up at Greg with an expression somewhere between fear, defiance and confusion. And something else. There was something more in his eyes. Something crazy as hell.

His face was still red from being choked, and one eye was swelling shut. Still it was that crazy look in his eyes that made him different. So different that Greg almost didn’t recognised him.

Then he drew in a sharp breath as he finally did.

“Alex Cartwright,” Greg said dumbly, looking down at the young nurse. “Holy shit.”

“Really, Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped. “Who else involved in any of this has any kind of medical training?”

Greg just shook his head, not bothering to point out that they had had no assurances that they’d ever interviewed the killer at all.

“Can you breathe okay, now?” Greg asked.

The man just nodded slightly, still looking up at Greg as though he weren’t entirely sure why Greg was asking.

“Need medical assistance?” As a nurse Greg figured he’d know.

“No,” came the horse reply.

He glanced over toward where Kevin was now sitting, Fitzhugh still beside him just in case. Both of them were focused on Alex. Kevin still looked angry but no longer enraged. Fitzhugh’s expression was harder to read but Greg thought he saw the glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes.

“He tried to kill me,” Alex hissed sounding hurt and confused as though the attack were utterly impossible for him to understand.

The fact that he didn’t apparently need medical assistance meant the Greg was free to treat him as any other suspect, instead of one who might drop dead on him.

“Considering he’s the alpha of one of your victims there aren’t many people who’d blame him,” Greg snapped, grabbing hold of him and shoving him over on his stomach.

“What?” Alex demanded. “No! No, you’re wrong! I didn’t…!”

“Right,” Greg said. “And you just _found_ all those internal organs in the other room.”

“No. You don’t understand…”

“No,” Greg growled, the sound silencing the beta. “I _don’t_ understand. I don’t understand why anyone would do something like this, you sick fuck. Or are you going to claim that your mother is responsible. It is her name on the lease for this place, right?” He glanced at Sherlock for confirmation of that fact and received a nod in response.

This was it then.

Greg couldn’t yet come to grips with the idea of the young nurse he’d spoken to on more than one occasion, the one who’d seemed honestly distressed by the news of Agnes’ death had been the one responsible for what had been done to those young women. Still, the evidence in the other room was fairly incontrovertible.

“Why?” he demanded. It should all wait for interview, he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Why kill them?”

Alex said nothing and Greg didn’t ask again. There would be time for that later. For now there were procedures to follow.

Greg wasn’t the fanciful type, he never had been. But as he yanked Alex’s hands behind his back his awareness of what lay in the other room tugged at him. It was as though he could feel the ghosts of the dead gathering around him, waiting for justice. And as much as he wanted to be the one to give it them, there was someone here with more right to it than himself.

He looked up and into the eyes of his fellow officer.

“Constable Fitzhugh, would you do the honours?”

Fitzhugh’s eyes widened slightly and Greg was sure now there were unshed tears there. But they remained unshed. He nodded his head and came over to kneel on Alex’s other side, pulling out his restraints. 

“Alex Cartwright,” he said, voice roughened but steady. He spoke slowly as he went on, pronouncing each charge, each _name_ , with careful precision. “You are under arrest for the murders of Jemma Felicity Pierson, Cynthia Harrison, Sophie Emmett, Agnes Liu and Marjory Phelps. You are also under suspicion for the death of Patrick Martin. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Fitzhugh’s hands were perfectly steady and if his voice broke slightly on Felicity’s name, Greg wasn’t going to say anything about it.

“And I might not be able to charge you for it, but you’re also responsible for the deaths of Shaun Ferris and of his and Sophie’s unborn child,” Greg added, looking at Sherlock who looked steadily back.

The click of the restraints closing seemed loud in the small room.

Alex didn’t struggle as Greg hauled him to his feet and if he was rougher in that action than he needed to be, he doubted anyone would care.

“There are six…” Greg said. “Out there, there are six. Who’s the sixth victim?” he demanded. “What was her name?”

The beta blinked at him as though the entire situation had gone entirely beyond him. Greg had to restrain himself from shaking the man.

Sirens were approaching, his backup would be here soon and there would be procedures to follow. But they weren’t here yet. Sherlock was clearly thinking the same.

“That sound is more officers on their way,” Sherlock said, voice cold as ice and a fierceness there Greg had never heard before. “But right now it’s still just the five of us. The DI here has stood over your victims. The rest of us, we all knew at least one of them. None of us will say a word if he chooses to force that information out of you.”

Alex just looked blankly at him as though he honestly didn’t understand what Sherlock was saying. 

Greg gave in and shook the man.

“What was the sixth victim’s name?!” he demanded. In a moment, he’d resort to Command and damn procedure.

“First victim,” Sherlock corrected, stepping close beside Greg and studying Alex, his eyes sharp with that laser look that said he was seeing more than the rest of them could imagine. “You hid her body. You weren’t ready yet for others to see your work. More than that, you knew you’d be suspected if she turned up dead. Knew someone would look at you for it because you knew her well. Were probably even the last person she was seen with. What was her name?”

“Bethy.” The name was little more than a whisper. “Bethany Walters. Bethy,” he repeated, staring down at Greg’s shoes.

“Bethany Walters,” Greg said, cementing the name in his mind with the other victims. He’d have to get more about her out of her killing later but for now the name was enough.

The lights from the arriving police cars lit up the dark room in alternating flashes of blue and red. 

“Fitzhugh, grab one of the officers downstairs and have them take you back to the yard where you will get Mr. Cartwright booked. Tell the other officers that we’ll need forensics here to process the scene and a couple of uniforms to keep it secured, but that’s all.” He looked at the man, a fine officer he thought, but one that was just about at the end of what he could endure for now. “Let Jones know what’s happening and that I want him here ASAP and update Bradstreet. When you’ve done all that, go home. Get some sleep. It’s going to take all night to process this place. I’ll expect you in bright and early tomorrow, we’ll start interviewing at 9 o’clock.”

The beta’s eyes widened even as his shoulders straightened at the realisation that he would be allowed not only to book Felicity’s killer himself, but to take part in closing her case. He nodded, his eyes now shining with more than the tears he still wouldn’t let fall. Once he was alone, Greg though, he’d let himself cry but not before. Greg respected him both for the tears and the pride that kept them back while he was still on the job.

“Yes, sir.”

Alex Cartwright didn’t struggle, didn’t even look up from the floor, as Fitzhugh hauled him out of the room. Greg didn’t know if he was exercising his right not to speak or whether he’d just given up. The difference would matter tomorrow when he sat down to interview the man but right now, he didn’t care.

They could hear Fitzhugh’s voice giving instructions as he met up with other officers who had been coming up the stairs. They headed back down with him, not wanting to risk contaminating the crime scene now that the situation was under control.

Then there was quiet again, the sirens outside silenced and only the flashing blue and red light to show they were still there at all.

Kevin still sat on the floor where he’d tried to kill Marjorie’s murderer. He looked like he wasn’t sure quite what to do with himself now. No matter how Greg felt about the other alpha attempting to take justice into his own hands, he couldn’t help but sympathise with what had led him to do so. In all honestly, he couldn’t be absolutely sure he wouldn’t have done the same in his position.

“I should arrest you for assault,” Greg told him absently. “But all things considered we’d have a hell of a time making the charge stick. So, go home to your pack. I’ll need your statement later tomorrow but tonight, go be with your own. They need you.”

He turned his attention finally to Sherlock then. “Are you all right?” he asked, approaching him to get a better look.

Sherlock snorted, clearly annoyed at the question. “Yes, of course I’m all right. And you needn’t study my eyes for signs of being high. I’m clean.”

Greg, who had been doing just that, allowed his frustration to boil over.

“And you couldn’t have waited until the next morning to talk to Kevin and his pack?!” he demanded. “You damn well knew we were going to be bringing them in for questioning today. You’d been a week in Colwith, you bloody well could have been there for that with no harm done. But no, that’s not dramatic enough for you, is it? You just _had_ had to break out of a rehab facility and go haring off on your own, scaring the living shit out of Ann and me. Hunting an omega killer while smelling like you do? Have you even _tried_ to mask your scent? What am I saying? Of course, you haven’t. You were going to use yourself as bait if this didn’t work, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t come to that.” Sherlock sounded as sulky as a child and Greg honestly wasn’t sure if he was more put out the Greg that figured out what his plan B was or that he hadn’t had the chance to implement it.

“You God damn, self-centred…”

But Sherlock wasn’t even looking at Greg now. He was focused on where Kevin was pulling himself to his feet.

“One of the staff at Abbott House told me about a young woman, an omega, who went missing a little over a year ago,” Sherlock said apropos of nothing. Greg opened his mouth to start shouting in earnest but Sherlock went on. “Because she was a pro and a junkie with a long rap sheet the staff there couldn’t get the police interested. They reported her missing, reported the fact that she’d left all her belongings in her room. The report was filed and that was the end of it. As far as anyone could tell no one ever even bothered looking for her.”

Taking a deep breath for calm and promising himself that he’d deliver Sherlock to Ann for one of _her_ tongue lashings as soon as they got out of here, Greg forced himself to pay attention to what Sherlock was actually saying. A missing pro, someone who was never found. It sounded as though it might be important.

“Was her name Bethany?”

“Interestingly enough, no it wasn’t,” Sherlock said. “It was Denise Campbell.”

Greg was tired. The adrenaline that had kept him on his feet for nearly twenty hours now was starting to drain and he found it strangely difficult to make sense of what Sherlock was getting at.

“Wait, are you saying that he killed a seventh victim? And what, didn’t save her internal organs like the others?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I’m saying he killed six but not necessary the six we think.”

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired, had been on the run for nearly twenty-four hours now and still had a long night of work ahead of him. 

“Look can we talk about all this in the morning?” Greg asked. “We have the suspect and we have six names to go with the six containers in the other room. We have no reason at this time to link the disappearance of another omega with the murders of all the others. We’ll look in to it tomorrow when we question Cartwright but for God’s sake, Sherlock, drop it for tonight.”

“Amen,” was Kevin’s fervent response. The other alpha looked every bit as exhausted as Greg felt and Greg reflected that the last day had been no easier on him.

The two alphas shared a commiserating look.

Sherlock looked mutinous but Greg decided all that could wait. The forensics team would be arriving soon and he still wanted another look at the display in the other room before they arrived.

The shelf was one of those you could buy at any DIY shop, that could be bolted into the wall with the use of any basic screwdriver. The containers looked like very large jars and each was filled with liquid in which its grisly content floated. The liquid was probably Formaldehyde or something similar. He’d have to look into how one obtained that but as a nurse he’d guess that Alex Cartwright would have access to things not always available to others.

They’d have to start DNA tests as soon as possible to determine which organs belonged to which victims.

Greg’s eyes had focused on one that was slightly larger than the others, as though it had been swollen. He found himself wondering if that was Sophie’s with her unborn child still inside. The idea sickened him and brought a welling up of grief in its wake.

He heard Kevin come into the room and felt he should say something, distract the man from wondering which set of organs had belonged to Marjory. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to see this, to know someone who had been yours was up here. 

“She won’t be there, will she?” Sherlock said, following them into the front room. “They’ll know that when they start the DNA testing. Then what? You hadn’t planned that he’d have kept everything he took from his victims had you? And Lestrade is still between you and the door. You can’t just run.”

Greg turned. “Sherlock, what are you…?” 

His eyes met Kevin’s.

There was something there, some glint of panic. 

Horror flooded through him.

No, there was no possible way… Kevin was an alpha like himself. He could never have… then he saw that Kevin knew Greg had understood what Sherlock was saying and he saw there all the confirmation he needed. 

Greg shifted to the side, putting himself more firmly between the other alpha and the door. 

“Tell me you didn’t,” he said, but Greg already knew the truth and he felt sick. Six victims represented here… but Marjory wasn’t one of them. All the horror and disgust he’d felt for what Alex Cartwright had done… this was worse.

He’d been ready for Kevin to rush him, to try to get past to the door. He hadn’t been ready for him to dart backwards, away from Greg and toward Sherlock.

In a moment he’d seized the omega. A growl from the alpha was enough to make Sherlock pause just long enough for him to get around behind him.

Greg started forward but stopped when Kevin snarled, this sound a warning alpha to alpha.

Kevin had Sherlock in a choke hold from behind, arm tight across his throat.

“Let him go,” Greg growled, the sound a warning in equal measure to Kevin’s.

Kevin’s eyes were wide, filled with panic and a budding fury. “I don’t want to hurt him,” he said. “God, I don’t. I just want to get out of here. Get out of my way and he’ll be fine.” The words were too rushed, the look in his eyes too wild. It had all happened so fast, but already the other alpha was teetering on the edge of going feral. The alpha side if Greg’s own nature was pushing him toward the same in response to the twin provocations of the threat to Sherlock and the other alpha’s desperate anger.

“You know I can’t do that.” Greg couldn’t have kept the growl out of his voice if he’d wanted to. The alpha before him was threating someone who was _his_. It was all Greg could do to force his thoughts to dominate his instincts instead of the other way around. The alpha inside was howling in rage.

“ **Let him go!** ” Greg Commanded.

There was a hiss of breath from Kevin but he didn’t move, dominant enough in his own right to fight off Greg’s Command. 

“ **Get out of my way!** ”

The punch of force was staggering. Some part of Greg’s mind cringed and wanted to obey. There was a time, not that long ago when he might have succumbed, if only for a moment; shifted to the side a little before he regained control of himself. A twitch of reaction Kevin could have used. As it was, it nearly threw him off his mental balance. Nearly.

That was before.

And the reason he couldn’t be pushed off balance like that now stood before him, eyes wide and hands gripping the arm around his throat. Greg had felt this before, facing down Mycroft in his office, the strange awareness of that inner surety and stability that came with having an intrinsic pack member, an intrinsic herlot. It was stronger this time, though, a hundred times stronger. Everything in him rising to face this threat to what belonged to him.

Sherlock was far from helpless and he tried to kick backwards at Kevin’s kneecaps, even while his hands went searching for various pressure points. But the other alpha seemed to have been expecting the move. He shifted his leg out of range of the kick and tightened his grip around the omega’s neck. Sherlock choked, his face beginning to go red.

“ **Sherlock, stop.** ” Greg didn’t even bother to stop and consider the wisdom of Commanding Sherlock in this situation. All he was sure of was that he couldn’t take the chance of Sherlock getting hurt trying to escape Kevin’s grip. Greg didn’t doubt for a moment that Kevin was strong enough to break his neck and nearly crazy enough to do it at this point.

Sherlock froze instantly, unable to fight the force of the Command.

He saw Marjorie’s body again. The omega lying in her tent, in her home, in her alpha’s personal territory. A place where she should have been safe. She’d been trusting that the alpha who’s sworn to care for her would stand as her shield while she was vulnerable. But that alpha had been the one to kill her. The person responsible for her protection had taken her life in the place she should have been safest. It turned his stomach. Everything in him revolted at the concept.

“She was yours,” Greg snarled.

“You have no idea what’s it like,” Kevin snarled. “She was taking my pack away from me. They weren’t looking to me anymore, they were looking to _her_. She was stealing them, all of them! And she wasn’t even an alpha. I couldn’t fight her for control of the pack, couldn’t do anything. If I’d disclaimed her I would have lost them all, they wouldn’t have stood for it. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have your pack stolen from you and not even be able to fight back? If I’d even so much as acknowledged what was happening in any way I’d have lost what control I still had, loose even the respect of the other packs. And that respect is all that keeps them out of your personal territory when there’s no paperwork, no official recognition that it’s yours. I mean, seriously, what kind of alpha has his pack taken from him by an _omega_? I was losing _everything_.”

“By killing her you threw it all away yourself,” Greg countered. “What kind of an alpha kills what he’s claimed as his to guard?”

“A desperate one,” Kevin answered. “Now, get out of my way!”

“ **Let him go!** ” Greg shouted.

Kevin shook his head, eyes even more wild as the force of Greg’s dominance hit him. It wasn’t enough though, not nearly enough. He was too strong. 

“I’ll kill him,” he said. “God help me, I don’t want to but I will. Get out of my way!”

Kevin’s Command was even stronger this time but the responding tide of fury from within Greg was stronger still.

Greg had never thought of himself as defined by his permutation; he was a man, a husband, a friend, an officer of the law. He was all those things and they were his strength, they were who and what he was. The alpha part of him was incidental. A set of instincts inside him that nonetheless wasn’t him.

He met Sherlock’s eyes.

And he knew that as only a man he wasn’t strong enough.

For the first time in his life Greg threw away thought and reason, threw away everything but instinct. 

The world narrowed to only this, another alpha threatening to harm an omega that belonged to him. The moment he stopped fighting that part of himself everything became simple, black and white. There was nothing else and he felt the flood of power that came with fully embracing the alphic side of his nature. Every bit of the dominance he possessed was dredged up from the core made so stable by the kind of alpha he was, the kind of alpha Sherlock had made him by acknowledging his claim.

The snarl that came from him was a sound he had been unaware he could even make but there was no part of his mind free of fury enough to even wonder at it.

“ **If you harm him in any way I’ll tear your throat out myself.** ” He didn’t have to yell now. The force of his dominance rolled through the room.

It was met by Kevin’s own strength flowing back at him, too strong in his own right to be easily cowed. 

Still, he staggered slightly at the force. His grip on Sherlock faltered but not enough for the omega to escape, not yet.

“But he’ll still be dead,” Kevin managed to growl back. “Do you want to take that chance?”

Greg absorbed the impact of the Command in Kevin’s voice, the force of his dominance, in a way he’d never have imagined he could.

“ **He is _mine_ ,**” Greg snarled, taking one deliberate step forward.

Kevin’s breath was coming fast now, in ragged gasps. Greg could feel sweat forming on his own brow, his own heart pounding, but he ignored it. Nothing existed for him beyond this room, this confrontation.

“ **Let. Him. Go.** ”

Kevin gasped this time, still fighting but Greg could almost feel him weakening.

" _ **NOW!**_ " Everything Greg had, everything he _was_ , was poured into that one word.

Kevin’s arm dropped from around Sherlock’s neck. His face was pale as his knees gave out under him and he collapsed to the floor.

Sherlock stumbled away, hand to his throat and grabbed onto the table to keep on his feet.

Greg was already rushing forward to pull Sherlock’s chin up and see his neck.

“ **Are you all right?** ”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said weakly. “You can stop growling now. The other alpha has conceded.”

Greg hadn’t even realised that his every word still dripped with Command.

It took a great deal to reign it in. More than he’d ever imagined to force himself to start thinking again in anything but primary colours. He nearly shoved Sherlock into the chair before turning back to Kevin, his own body between the other alpha and Sherlock.

But there was no danger now. 

Kevin was slumped on his knees, head bowed.

Inside, the alpha part of Greg’s nature howled with triumph. The rest of him, for once, was in accord.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm travelling and am posting this from a Denny's at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere Missouri. Just thought I'd share that. *g*
> 
> What a journey this has been...
> 
> Last June, more than a year ago now, I signed up for a fic exchange on tumblr. I was assigned randomly to write a story for elle_stone who particularly wanted an omega verse story where Sherlock was an omega and John an alpha. I was not best pleased. Sherlock being Sherlock, I've always seen him as an alpha. Then I started thinking of just how difficult it would be for him if he WERE an omega because of how he is. 'Permutation' resulted. When I was finishing that I suddenly had a sudden inspiration and threw in the the idea of Lestrade being Sherlock's pack alpha in for fun. 
> 
> I couldn't have imagined what that one thought would catapult me in to.
> 
> In November I started writing again, this time with the intention of writing a three or four chapter short story explaining how that situation came about.
> 
> Nine months, many sleepless nights and more than 80,000 words latter I find myself the writer of an entire novel-length fic!
> 
> I finished it last week and have been working with my beta to polish, edit and prepare the end for posting. The end turned out to be a little long one chapter, so I've divided it. I'll be posting Chapter 22 and the epilogue later this week when I finish the final editing.
> 
> This story is dedicated in its entirety to my out of this world beta, Coian, and to my dearest friend CJ in whose hospice room I wrote a great deal of this and who's ashes we buried yesterday under a tree near where she grew up.

More than an hour later, Greg finally stepped out onto the street for a much needed breathe of fresh air. The forensics team had arrived with Jones on their heels and Bradstreet not far behind him. With the other DI present he’d been happy to hand over Kevin to Jones for transportation to the yard and booking. What he’d done was _not_ something Greg wanted to think about tonight. He’d have to deal with it but tomorrow would be soon enough.

Worn out from the mental fight, Kevin went with the DS without any trouble.

After that, there had been an endless swirl of activity. EMTs had arrived and looked over Sherlock who had put up with the examination with ill grace. They’d declared him to be fine, which he had loudly insisted he’d said from the beginning and that all they’d done was waste his time.

Greg himself was jittery in the wake of his confrontation with Kevin, still running too much on instinct. He’d hovered while the EMTs worked, unable not to act like an anxious parent. It had earned some scowls from Sherlock and some odd looks from some of his men. 

Now, most of what he himself had to do tonight was done. The coroner’s people had left with the remains to begin their grisly task of figuring out what belonged to whom. The crime scene techs would still be at it inside for another hour at least and a couple of uniforms would be needed to stand guard. Normally he’d have stayed to supervise anyway. Tonight, though, he was just too tired. Everything else could wait until morning, when he’d had some sleep and daylight showed the crime scene better. As it was, he wasn’t much good to anyone like this. The crash that came with the draining away of adrenaline had left him fuzzy and this was something he needed clear head for.

Closing his eyes, Greg focused on breathing in the chilly pre-dawn air, trying not to think about anything. 

Sherlock was still harassing the techs but Greg thought that even he was tiring. How he was still on his feet at all after more than two days without sleep Greg didn’t know. Greg had finally admitted to himself an hour ago that taking Sherlock back to Colwith tonight wasn’t going to happen. He’d been making excuses to himself to keep Sherlock close. Exhausted as he was the alphic part of his nature was still far too close to the surface to be comfortable with the idea of the omega being anywhere Greg couldn’t see to his defence himself. It wasn’t rational, he knew, but it was there nonetheless. For what was left of tonight then, he’d take Sherlock home with him. He could sleep then with the other man safely tucked away in Greg’s personal territory.

He’d already called Ann to let her know that Sherlock was with him and they’d both be coming home that night. She’d got off the phone quickly, her voice already husky when she’d said goodbye. Greg suspected the tension of waiting had got to her more than he’d realised and she wasn’t the type to want an audience when she cried. She’d get it out of her system and be ready to give Sherlock hell when they got back.

“You can take my car.”

Starting he turned to find Bradstreet strolling up to him. “As I understand it, you drove here with Fitzhugh and then sent him off to book your killer without making any arrangements for how you were going to get home.”

Greg groaned. Oh hell, she was right. His own car was back at the yard. He’d have to hitch a ride all the way back there before he could even consider heading home.

“How would you get home?” Greg asked. 

“I don’t live nearly as far from the yard as you do,” she said. “I’ll grab a ride back with one of the uniforms and catch a cab from there.”

“That won’t come cheap,” he objected, feeling guilty over how much he wanted to take her up on her offer.

“You can pay me back. Did I ever tell you that I have three older brothers, all of them alphas?” she asked conversationally. Greg blinked at the non sequitur. God, he was too tired to keep up with leaps in conversation.

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“I grew up with them attempting to Command me to do this or that nearly all the time. They thought it was funny. Until the day their beta little sister was able to stand up to one of their Commands without batting an eyelash.” She smiled but it had an edge to it. “Then it wasn’t so funny anymore, at least not to them. I didn’t let on until one of them Commanded me in front of his friends. It made him look pretty weak when his little sister told him to stuff it. I mean, what kind of alpha can’t Command a beta?”

Greg couldn’t help but give a small smile back. “That explains a few things,” he said.

It was well-known at the yard that Jane Bradstreet was the one beta Commands didn’t seem to work on. It was part of what had earned her the rank of Detective Inspector, the fact that the most dominant suspect couldn’t cow her.

“So I know something of just how hard it must have been for Sherlock to hang up on you earlier this evening. I also know a bit of how he’s likely to be feeling about the whole thing.”

“Jane…” Greg began.

“No, just listen okay,” she said, holding up a hand to forestall him. “With someone as independent as he is, the fact that you _can_ Command him will likely scare him as much as infuriate him. The fact that you nearly had me on my knees earlier, that if you really tried you _could_ Command me… I’ll admit that that makes me a little nervous even though I _know_ you’d never try. And at least I have the distance that comes with the fact that you aren’t my alpha. He doesn’t have that anymore, does he?”

"No,” Greg admitted. “I claimed him and he acknowledged.”

“I thought so,” she said. “There’s levels of dominance among non-alphas too, you know.”

That was news. “There is?”

Bradstreet snorted. “It wouldn’t make much difference to someone like you, able to Command anyone you like but it does matter to the rest of us.”

Bradstreet paused for a fraction of a second as though expecting him to object to her statement and Greg realised for the first time just how automatic his rejection of any mention of his level of dominance had become. Had he really become _that_ defensive about it? God, he had, hadn’t he? Now though… Maybe it was simply because the alpha was still so close to the surface but Greg didn’t feel the need this time to argue that he didn’t _want_ to Command anyone. They both knew it and the fact that he didn’t want to dominate those around him didn’t alter the fact that he could. 

When he said nothing, Bradstreet continued.

“Usually people only talk about alpha dominance since that’s where the real power is. But there are other kinds of dominance. The only way it effects an alpha is in how easy or hard a person is to control, how susceptible they are to being Commanded. Since that’s not how you roll you wouldn’t be all that familiar with it but it’s there. Among non-alphas it’s pretty subtle who’s dominant but sometimes you get people like Sherlock and myself. We’re actually dominant enough in our own ways that with the right blockers and pheromones maskers we can actually pass for alphas. Weaker alphas sure, but we can do it.”

“Sherlock does that all the time,” Greg said, surprised that he hadn’t actually thought about that before now. He himself had assumed Sherlock was an alpha but he’d never really thought about what that meant in terms of natural dominance. And now that he really looked at it, many, if not most, of the betas at the yard _did_ defer to Bradstreet. They seemed to accept on some level that she was closer in dominance to someone like Greg than to themselves. He’d always put it down to her rank but now… he wasn’t so sure.

At Greg’s questioning look she nodded. “Sure I have. It’s useful, though, I mostly like to make use of the fact that everyone underestimates betas.” Another of her fierce grins, gone in a moment as she continued. “With Sherlock, though, it’s obviously different. Betas are at least allowed their own careers and lives, omegas… not so much.”

Greg swore. “Bugger. Everyone here will have smelled what he’s like now and if the whole yard knows…”

“It’s handled,” Bradstreet said. “I talked to him in front of the techs just loudly enough so that they all will have heard me ask him about the masker he was wearing and why the hell he’d want anyone to think he was an omega of all things.”

Greg relaxed, only then realising how much he’d tensed at the thought of Sherlock’s secret being out. “And he answered that it was to act as bait for our killer,” Greg surmised.

“Exactly,” she answered smugly. “I overheard them talking afterwards, all assuring themselves that they’d never thought for a moment that _Sherlock_ of all people could be an omega.”

Greg shook his head. “Sherlock’s said more than once that it’s amazing how far people will go to convince themselves that the world really is the way they think it should be.”

“He’s not wrong,” Bradstreet said, rolling her eyes. 

They stood in silence for a moment, considering the perversity of humanity.

Finally, Greg turned to Bradstreet and held out his hand. “I can’t thank you enough for your help today. It’s been beyond invaluable and I don’t know what I would have done without it.”

“You’d have managed,” Bradstreet said, accepting his hand. “Still, I’m glad to have been able to help. We got not one, but two killers off the streets and kept our favourite pain the ass from getting himself killed. All in all, not a bad day’s work.” She held out her keys. “You can bring my car back to me at the yard tomorrow.”

Looking past her, Greg shook his head. “You know what, I don’t think that’s going to be necessary after all.”

A sleek black car had pulled up on the other side of the street and Greg recognised the man who now climbed out to stand next to it, folding his hands on the top of his umbrella and looking for all the world like he was ready to wait as long as it took.

Glancing behind her, Bradstreet’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell has on a three-piece suite at this time of the morning?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Greg answered. At her questioning look he nodded. “Yep, he’s the one who so thoroughly violated both of our privacy not all that long ago. He’s also Sherlock’s big brother.”

“Oh my God,” the other DI groaned and Greg couldn’t help but grin at genuine horror in her voice.

“Oh yes,” Greg assured her. “There are _two_ of them. And that one,” he said nodding toward Mycroft, “has government influence to back him up.”

Bradstreet groaned again and threw up her hands. “This is something I want nothing to do with. But if you can get a ride with him, great. I’ll be off then. Night Greg.”

“Night.”

As she left Greg headed across the street to Mycroft.

“I take it that Sherlock is still getting in the way of the crime scene technicians?” the man asked as Greg approached him.

“I’m not even going to ask how you knew where we were or what was happening,” Greg said.

Mycroft’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “It might be for the best that you don’t. I understand that my brother is unharmed?”

“He’s fine,” Greg said. “I’ll take him back to Colwith tomorrow.” There was a faint challenge to the words, though he hadn’t meant there to be. He knew he should take him back tonight as much as he knew he wasn’t going to.

“Of course, Detective Inspector.” The slight inclination of the man’s head somehow both acknowledged Greg’s right to make that decision and indicating that he’d expected nothing else. How the hell the man could convey so much with something so basic Greg couldn’t begin to guess.

“Ah,” Mycroft said, looking past Greg to the house. “And here is my brother now.”

Sherlock scowled furiously as he marched up to them. “Piss off, Mycroft.” He swung on Greg. “Did you call him?” he demanded.

“He did not call me,” Mycroft answered placidly. “You know very well that such an action on his part would hardly have been necessary.”

Sherlock’s scowl somehow managed to darken even farther. “I’m not your concern anymore.”

“I can’t help but be concerned about my little brother’s welfare, can I?” Mycroft answered, and for the first time Greg thought he saw a chink in Mycroft’s armour. Some small flash of annoyance or hurt or God only knew what; some glimpse of real emotion behind his ever placid exterior. “Now,” he waved to the car behind him. “If we are done with the usual formalities, let me give you a lift.”

“We don’t need a ride from _you_ ,” Sherlock snarled at the same time Greg said, “A ride would be welcome, thank you.”

Sherlock transferred his glare to Greg. “Fitzhugh took the car back to the yard, Sherlock,” Greg said tiredly. “And in the heat of the moment I forgot to make arrangements to have one brought back here for us. We need a ride and I for one don’t want to have to either go all the way back to the yard _or_ wait around here while someone brings something over for us.”

“And, in fact, that would be counterproductive at this point,” Mycroft interposed. “I have already made arrangements to have your vehicle taken back to your home, Detective Inspector.”

Greg paused, wondering for a moment how the hell Mycroft had arranged to get the keys for his car but then decided he didn’t want to know any more than he wanted to know how Mycroft knew to come here, much less when to show up. 

“In that case, I’ll just let the officer on scene know I’m heading out,” Greg said utterly ignoring Sherlock’s indignant assurances that he wasn’t going _anywhere_ with Mycroft.

When he got back to the car he found to his surprise that Sherlock had relented enough to get in. He was less surprised that he sat with his arms folded petulantly, staring out the window in the manner of a teenager determined to pretend they were alone as pointedly as possible.

Conversation was nonexistent as they glided through the nighttime streets of London. Greg was too damn tired to make small-talk and Sherlock had no intention of talking to either of them. Thankfully, Mycroft seemed comfortable with silence and didn’t try to push conversation on either of his guests.

It was all Greg could do not to audibly sigh when they turned the corner onto his street and he could see his own home at last. Unlike the homes of his neighbours, the lights were on. Greg had told Ann that she didn’t need to wait up for them but he wasn’t surprised that she’d done so anyway.

They pulled in just behind Greg’s own car and Sherlock was out the door before the driver could even put them in park.

“Thanks,” Greg said, climbing out after him.

“My pleasure, Detective Inspector.”

Sherlock was halfway up the walk already as Greg got out of the car. The front door opened, spilling light onto the porch.

Ann was already giving it to Sherlock with both barrels by the time Greg entered the house. Sherlock had hunched his shoulders but was giving back as good as he got in the rare intervals when Ann paused for breath long enough for him to get a word in edgewise.

Greg hung up his coat and pressed a kiss to the top of Ann’s head. He hadn’t known how much stress he’d still carried until now when the last of it finally drained away. He felt wrung out, emptied by the emotional roller-coaster of the last twenty-four hours.

“I’m going to bed,” he told the combatants and left them to their fight.

He barely stirred when Ann got in beside him sometime later.

“Sherlock’s asleep,” she told him.

Greg nodded, gratefully pulling Ann into his arms, utterly content knowing that his little pack was safely tucked in where he could be there to protect them.

* * *

Morning came all too early, pulling Greg out of his warm bed and into the chill of a grey day. 

He was relieved that neither Sherlock nor Ann stirred as he left the house. Sherlock hadn’t slept in two days and Ann had been going on far too little sleep herself. Greg was exhausted too but needs must. He was glad that they at least could get some sleep. He stopped for a coffee on his way to the yard and poured himself another as soon as he got there, grimacing at the taste of the yard’s horrible sludge, particularly after having had the real thing on the way in. Still, caffeine was caffeine and he would need all he could get to get through the day.

Fitzhugh was just arriving himself when Greg reached the conference room, Styrofoam cup of liquid wakefulness also in hand. There were circles beneath his eyes from lack of sleep, similar to the ones Greg had seen in the mirror that morning when he’d shaved. Still, there seemed to be a sense of peace to the younger man that hadn’t been there before. Donovan was already there, ready with the reports from the crime scene techs, the preliminary coroner’s report, and news that Jones was on his way. She too was clearly going on too little sleep but it in no way seemed to impact her efficiency, something Greg appreciated.

“You’re never going to believe this,” she told them as Greg strode into the conference room, Fitzhugh on his heels. “I managed to get most of a background check done on Cartwright. He’s not a beta.”

That stopped Greg in his tracks.

“If he’s not a beta, what is he?” Fitzhugh demanded, all the shock Greg himself felt was in his tone.

“Mixed permutation,” Donovan said, obviously enjoying their shock. “He’s genetically an omega but apparently he’s got this condition where there due to too many beta hormones and not enough omega ones in utero. So he was born not able to produce the right pheromones.” She shook her head. “I’ve _heard_ of mixed permutations but I’ve never actually seen one before. He was raised as an omega and he was enrolled in school as one but as an adult, he chose to live as a beta and enrolled in nursing school as that.”

“He smells like a beta,” Greg commented.

“He’s on some kind of medication that suppresses the production of what few omega pheromones he can produce,” Donovan supplied. “So, yeah, he’d smell just like any other beta since the beta pheromones he produces are his own.”

Greg shook his head. “A beta serial killer killing outside their permutation was weird enough, but an _omega_ serial killer? I don’t think there’s ever been more than one or two ever documented.”

“Someone should write a book,” Fitzhugh said dryly. “This is going to really hit the public imagination.”

Greg groaned. Fitzhugh was right and that would mean press conferences and interviews and all the rest of that nonsense, which got in the way of Greg doing his actual job.

Alex Cartwright was already in the interview room when Greg and Fitzhugh entered twenty minutes later. He looked like the night hadn’t been any shorter for him than it had been for them but at least he seemed reasonably alert, not fazed out like he had been last night. There was nothing crazy in his eyes either as his gaze met Greg’s. It was hard to imagine now that the slight man before him with the ordinary face had brutally killed and mutilated six people. Still, that was what people always said about serial killers, wasn’t it? How they were quiet, kept to themselves, how they couldn’t believe the person would ever have hurt anyone. Greg had been a cop far too long not to know that often it was the ones who seemed so harmless that got away with it the longest.

Turning on the recorder, Greg read in the pertinent information. 

For a moment afterwards he sat, looking at the man across from him.

“No lawyer?” Greg asked finally.

“What’s the point?” Alex said. “I’m not stupid, Detective Inspector. I know it’s over.”

Okay, that was surprising. He’d caught criminals actually in the act of committing crimes and they still tried to weasel out of it somehow, pretend it wasn’t what they thought or tried to make a deal. 

“Last night you said several times that you didn’t do it,” Fitzhugh challenged.

“There was a name,” Alex said. “You said a name that I didn’t recognise, someone I didn’t know.”

Greg had to swallow past a sudden obstruction before he could speak. The knowledge of what Kevin Saunders had done still too raw.

“Marjory Phelps,” he supplied. “We thought she was one of yours but it turns out that that was a copy-cat killing. So, instead of one jar in that flat unaccounted for, we have two. You gave us one name, Bethany Walters.” Greg shuffled the papers in front of him. “We’ve determined that she was a patient of yours through the mobile clinic you work for. You helped her get a place at Abbott House nineteen months ago. She seems to have disappeared a little over two months later, although no missing person’s report was ever filed.”

Greg fixed the man in front of him with a hard stare. “Why her?” he asked. “She was your first, right? What was it about her that made you want to kill her?”

Alex looked away, his hands clenching and unclenching in front of him. For a long moment the three sat in silence, Greg content to wait as long as it took.

“I knew her in primary school,” Alex said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Back when you were still living as an omega,” Fitzhugh supplied matter-of-factly.

“She knew,” Alex said. “She knew I was… defective.”

Greg’s brows drew together. “Defective? Because you have a mixed permutation?”

Alex snorted. “There’s no such thing, not when you were born to be a breeder. You can either fulfil your role or you can’t. We found out when I was in primary school that because of the severity of the Betagen Aplestia I was probably infertile. My parents found specialists, tried every treatment they could find to fix me. They already had my mate picked out, you see. The contract signed and sealed by the time I was a year old. The alpha was the son of one of my father’s business partners. Sixteen doctors, three surgeries and every treatment known to man later they finally gave up and told them I was defective. They broke the mating contract then and there, there’s no point in an omega that can’t give their alpha pups.”

Even in modern Brittan it wasn’t unheard of for the parents of omegas to make contracts for their mating long before the child hit their majority. It was a practice that Greg found distasteful in the extreme but as long as the omega in question didn’t actively object to the mating there was nothing actually illegal about it. Unfortunately, in those situations the omega was usually raised with the understanding that they didn’t have a choice in the matter. In Greg’s experience it was a rare child or teenager who was able to stand up to their family in such a way. Greg had seen a few, runaways refusing to go home to fulfil a contract they wanted nothing to do with. It wasn’t common though. The majority did as they were told and tried to make the best of it.

The contracts usually made certain stipulations regarding the circumstances under which the mating wouldn’t occur. Infertility in either party was pretty much always one of those reasons.

“Sounds to me like you were well out of it,” Greg said. “Who wants to mate with someone who only wants you for your ability to give them kids?”

“Easy for you to say,” Alex said, glaring at him from under his lashes. “You’re an alpha. You have value beyond your ability to produce the next generation.”

“You think an infertile omega isn’t worth anything?” Fitzhugh demanded. Greg couldn’t blame him for the distaste in his tone. Even now there were too many people who felt omegas had no business doing anything but being mothers for the next generation.

Alex just shrugged. “I know what I was born for and I know that because of some stupid hormonal imbalance I was useless for that purpose.”

What kind of parents raised a kid to believe such a thing? Greg wondered. Then he put the thought aside. The psychological impact of Alex’s childhood and how it had made him into what he was was something for the shrinks to deal with.

“And Bethany knew all about this?” he asked, getting them back on topic.

“She said I was lucky.” Bitterness laced the words. “She’d had a mating contract as well, to an alpha who was kind and treated her well. They were mated when she was sixteen, the age I would have been mated at too. Her alpha even encouraged her to go to University, to have her own career and life. He was willing to wait and not have kids until she was ready. But she didn’t want to go to University or have a job or be mated. She started using, ran away from him, turned tricks. As her mate, he had to be informed when she was accepted into Abbott House. He came several times to see her. He wanted her to be healthy, happy. She refused even to talk to him. He came to me more than once, asking what he’d done to make her hate him, what he could do help her. And all the time, all she would say was how much she hated being an omega, how much she wished she’d been born an alpha. Hated how alphas looked at her, treated her, wanted her. She _hated_ the idea of being a mother. She told me that she’s started using when she’d found out she’d got pregnant by accident. She took whatever she could get her hands on to kill the baby, because she knew her mate would never consent to her having an abortion.” It was still illegal, even now, for a mated omega to have an abortion without the knowledge of their mate and nearly impossible to get one at all if the mate chose to fight it.

“She killed her own baby!” Alex said, horror and bitterness in his voice. “What kind of an omega does that? I was so horrified when I realised what she’d done. She’d committed murder and her mate never even knew she’d ever been pregnant, never knew she’d killed his child. I told her she was the lucky one, with a mate like that, with the chance to really be what she’d been born to be, a real omega. That she was sick to have done what she did. She laughed at me. Laughed! Told me if I was so obsessed with her uterus I could have it…” He trailed of. “She _said_ I could have it,” he repeated quietly. “So I took it.”

Silence fell in the little room.

“And after?” Greg asked finally, hating that he felt even a shred of sympathy for the man in front of him.

“I used her key to get into her room, took all her things and threw them out, said she’d run off. She hadn’t been really all that committed to getting better, so no one doubted that she had.”

“Where’s her body?” Fitzhugh asked softly, his face pale but voice composed.

“I put it in the bottom of a restaurant dumpster, a couple blocks from the shelter. This Ethiopian place, I don’t remember the name. That alley already smelled so bad, I didn’t think anyone would really even notice the smell of decomposition. Besides, it was winter. I didn’t think it would get too bad before the garbage trucks came. I was right.”

Taking himself firmly in hand, Greg forged ahead. “Tell me about Denise Campbell,” he said.

Alex looked up, clearly surprised. “How…?” He shook his head. “Nevermind, I don’t suppose it matters.”

“Did you kill her?”

“She was just like Bethy,” Alex said softly, looking down at his hands again. “She ran away from her mate, had an illegal abortion — more than one actually — said she hated what she was. But she was happy to use it. Laughed at the alphas behind their backs because they were so easy to manipulate, hated them for being willing to do just about anything to share a heat with her. Still she was perfectly happy to let them for a price, thought it was funny how much they were paying for the chance. She charged extra for that. A hell of a lot of money upfront in order to spend those three days with her. I tried to talk to her, tried to help her see how lucky she was. She wouldn’t listen. She just sneered at me, said I was weak and stupid not to make use of my good luck. Said I could charge whatever I wanted from alphas for the chance to share a heat with someone without even the possibility of an accidental pregnancy.”

“You didn’t bother getting rid of her things, though,” Greg commented.

“No reason to connect her to me,” Alex said. “I treated her, sure. But that was all. There was no link between us other than that and she was a junkie and a whore whose mate had washed her hands of her. The woman didn’t even bother contacting the shelter after she was told that her mate was there. I couldn’t blame her.”

“And the body?”

“Same,” Alex said. “It worked the first time.”

“You changed all that when you went after Cynthia Harrison, though,” Fitzhugh said. “Why?”

“She never stayed at Abbott House. I just knew her through the mobile clinic. Tried to talk to her, tried to tell her she should go home. She never said anything, though. Just took the meds I gave her and left.”

“We have reason to believe that her family was abusive,” Greg said. “A friend of hers claims that her step-father raped her on more than one occasion.” Alex looked up at that, his attention caught. Then he looked away, shrugged.

“She was whoring herself out. Really, what’s the difference between her and the others. Using her gender to make money off of alphas instead of trying to find a mate to be there for. She’d have been no different given time.”

“So, you decided that she should die for that,” Greg stated flatly, his sympathy for the man vanishing. “But unlike the Denise and Bethy you didn’t have to get rid of the body afterwards. There was no link to you or to Abbott House. So you just left her where you killed her.”

Alex said nothing, but it was confirmation enough.

Greg didn’t want to push forward, all too aware of the man beside him, of what had to be asked next.

It was Fitzhugh himself who asked it. “Is that why you waited until Felicity left Abbott House before your hunted her down? So that there would be no obvious link?” Greg could hear the pain in the man’s voice but it was well controlled and Alex didn’t seem to hear it at all.

“She would have been missed,” Alex said, staring at his hands. Greg could only imagine what he was actually seeing. “She made too much of an impression and there was no way anyone would believe that she’d just walk out without telling anyone. She wasn’t like that. Besides, I knew a cop had pulled strings to get her into Abbott House. If she’d just disappeared from there I thought that there might be questions.”

A soft sound of pain from Fitzhugh caught Alex’s attention and his head came up. For the first time he seemed to really look at the other beta in the room, before his eyes widened, guessing who that cop must have been.

He opened his mouth as though he would say something and Greg tensed. Fitzhugh was a good officer, but if Alex started saying the same things about Felicity he’d said about the others Greg wasn’t entirely sure the beta wouldn’t attack their prisoner. Perhaps some realisation of that crossed Alex’s mind, for he closed his mouth and said nothing, looking away again.

“You’re right,” Fitzhugh said, finally. His voice rough with strong emotion. “She would have been missed. She always made an impression. And yeah, she was a junkie and a whore. But she never hurt anyone other than herself.”

“She could have had everything,” Alex said. “They all could. They could have had a mate and a home and all the rest. They could have had everything I’d ever wanted but they threw it away.”

“Sophie didn’t,” Greg objected, wanting to move passed Felicity for now, knowing Fitzhugh needed the emotional distance of moving on to a victim he hadn’t known. “By all accounts she was devoted to her mate. She never turned tricks. Hell, she was pregnant with a child both she and her mate very much wanted when you killed her.”

“Devoted?” Alex asked, looking at Greg incredulously. “She ordered him around like he was her servant. She acted like _she_ was the alpha, not him. And that pathetic excuse for a pack went along with it. She said more than once that any omega who didn’t use what she had to control her mate was just stupid.”

“Shaun didn’t seem to mind it,” Greg said. “And who are you to decide what the relationship between a mated pair should be like? They were happy as they were.”

“And what about the baby?” Fitzhugh demanded, having clearly regained control of himself. “You condemned the others for killing their unwanted children but you went ahead and killed one that was wanted.”

Alex’s shoulders slumped, seeming honestly upset for the first time. “I didn’t know about the baby. I honestly didn’t. I’d had no idea she was pregnant until after she was dead, until I realised there was something inside what I took out of her.”

“You’d been watching her for a while,” Greg objected. “How did you not know she was pregnant?”

“I couldn’t be close enough to hear what they were saying most of the time,” he said. “All I could see was how she acted and she never said anything about it to us in the mobile clinic. In fact, she’d stopped coming to us at all and when I was able to get close to her… It was too early for the shift in her scent. I had no way of knowing,” he insisted defensively. “But… but I’m sorry about the baby.”

“Shaun committed suicide after you killed his mate and child,” Greg told him. Alex looked up again, eyes wide with evident distress. Greg wanted to shout at him, to say that he’d nearly killed Sherlock into the bargain. Greg didn’t think for a moment that it wasn’t Sophie’s death and Shaun’s anger that hadn’t been behind his overdose. He said nothing though. That wasn’t something he wanted on any official record. Besides, Alex probably wouldn’t mind so much about that. Sherlock was probably as much deserving of death in his eyes as the others were. The thought was enough to harden Greg’s heart entirely against the man in front of him.

“You knew you couldn’t afford a link to Abbott House,” Greg continued. “So it was you who did all you could to drive Agnes out of it. But why? She was getting better by all the reports. She might have gone on to have the life you say she should have wanted.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Alex said decisively. “She might have got clean, was getting clean. But she’d been turning tricks for too long. She’d come to have nearly as much contempt for alphas as the others. Didn’t help that that so-called pack of hers was just a pimp using his position to make his girls whore for him.”

That caught Greg’s attention. “Did Agnes actually tell you that Jo Rossie was pimping her and the other women in his pack out?” 

“Yes,” Alex said. “He takes in girls who don’t have anyone, gives them a pack, the illusion of safety and all that. He’s generous with supplying them with their drug of choice. Once he has the kind of control over them an alpha should have, he starts demanding that they pay their own way. It’s not that unusual.”

It wasn’t at that. Greg and Fitzhugh exchanged a look and Greg made a mental note to find Agnes’ friend and packmate, Debbi, and have a serious talk with the woman. Jo Rossie would have to be dealt with.

Taking a deep breath, Greg focused his mind back on the matter at hand.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re going to go over all of this again. This time I want details. Where and when you first met each of your victims, how you killed them, everything.”

Alex nodded, his gaze once again focused on the table in front of him. Greg exchanged a look with Fitzhugh, making sure that the other man was ready to hear the details of Felicity’s death along with the others.

The constable grimly nodded his preparedness.


	22. Chapter 22

It took another two hours to go over the details of the six murders. At times, Alex was almost clinical and at no time did he show any remorse. He regretted the loss of Sophie and Shaun's baby but that was all.

When it was over and their suspect was returned to holding, Greg was left feeling oddly unfulfilled. They had caught a serial killer and prevented any more murders. He’d expected to feel some sense of accomplishment when it was all over, some awareness of a job well done.

He didn’t. All he felt was worn out and dejected. Greg couldn’t imagine the kind of upbringing that would leave a person with the unshakable belief that their entire worth lay in their ability to produce children for their alpha.

After his mating contract had been broken, Alex Cartwright had gone to university. He’d become a nurse and devoted his life to caring for those most didn't even want to acknowledge. Before he'd snapped, he’d done a hell of a lot of good for a lot of people. The reports Donovan had collected from Abbott House while Greg and Fitzhugh were in interview were glowing. They all spoke of Alex's dedication and how many homeless people he’d worked diligently to help kick their addictions and get off the streets. He’d done an often thankless, dispiriting job and he'd done it well. There was no knowing how many lives he’d touched at the shelter and as part of the crew working the mobile clinic. He’d saved lives.

In the end, though, none of it mattered to Alex himself. He honestly believed that he was defective. He was an embarrassment to his parents and no matter how much good he did, he saw himself as a failure. No matter how many lives he saved, he himself was without worth. In the end, the inner core of self-hatred had broken out in violence against those he saw as being everything he himself could never be and having thrown it all away.

Maybe if he’d tried to bullshit Greg, maybe if he’d had to be pinned down and forced into some betraying remark Greg might have felt better about it all. As it was, the quiet man who’d sat disconsolately and just handed them everything without a fight had denied Greg even that sense of accomplishment.

After the interview the team met in the conference room to bring everyone up to date and to begin the final preparations for the indictments of Alex Cartwright and Kevin Saunders. The team was joined by Bradstreet and DCI Chamberlain. The cases were both as solid as they came, but there were always bureaucratic i’s to dot and t’s to cross in order not to have their evidence thrown out of court by some clever barrister.

Chamberlain shook his head when Greg was finished summing up the two cases.

“What about Patrick Martin?” he asked Bradstreet. “He was yours, wasn’t he?”

“He is, yes,” Bradstreet said. “I’ll have a go at Cartwright myself this afternoon, but that’s not much more than a formality at this point.”

“He copped to it then?”

“He did,” Greg said. “Apparently, Martin saw Cartwright leaving Agnes’ room at one point. He played it off at the time but when I came to see him he realised that the man would make a good red-herring, having wandered off again the day after Agnes left. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t work if we actually found him and he told us what he’d seen. Cartwright had been hoping his body wouldn’t be found any more than the bodies of first two victims had been. He’d been lucky before but it seems his luck ran out with Martin.”

Chamberlain nodded. “I want that junkie informant of yours in here to give his statement today.”

Greg nodded.

“Right,” the DCI said. “I have to meet with the Superintendent now. We’re going to have one hell of a media storm when this one hits.” He shook his head. “An omega serial killer, shit. We’re going to have a media conference this afternoon at four. Lestrade, Bradstreet, I want you both there and ready to answer questions.”

“Yes, sir,” the two DIs answered almost in perfect unison.

Chamberlain looked around the room and nodded. “Good work, people. Now finish this up so that neither of these buggers get away with this.”

There were variants on the theme of ‘yes, sir’ from everyone as the DCI took his leave.

There was work still to be done and Greg handed out assignments for interviews and follow ups.

As the team filed out, Fitzhugh lingered for a moment, looking at the board with its pictures of their victims and the horrific images of the crimes scenes where they’d died.

“You doing alright, Constable?” Greg asked. 

“Yes, actually,” Fitzhugh said. “I feel… not better exactly, but like I will feel better at some point.” He gave Greg a rueful look. “Does that make any sense?”

“It does, yes,” Greg said.

“You know what I find oddly comforting?” Fitzhugh asked. At Greg’s raised eyebrows he continued. “The fact that this case _is_ going to be such a media frenzy. I know that sounds ridiculous but the fact is that this is going to be remembered. A case for the history books. That means that Felicity won’t be forgotten. She won’t be just one more homeless junkie dead on the streets. The fact that she lived and died… it won’t just go away. Does that sound crazy?”

Greg thought about it. He hadn’t thought much beyond the fact that the press conference and all the attention that came after was going to be a pain. He hadn’t thought about what that would mean for the memory of the victims. That those that knew and loved them might find some comfort in the kind of immortality that came with being involved in a case like this had never occurred to him. He wasn’t sure he himself could have found comfort in such a thing but he could just about understand why someone might.

“Actually, yeah, I guess can see that.”

“I’m just hoping that she won’t be brushed aside as just another dead whore,” Fitzhugh said. “I hope that people take the time to see Cartwright’s victims for the people they were.”

“You were right before, when you said that someone should write a book,” Greg said. “This case, these victims, they can be made to matter. And you know what I think?”

“What?” Fitzhugh asked.

“I think you should write it.”

Fitzhugh laughed. “Me?” He shook his head. “I’m a beat cop.”

“Exactly,” Greg persisted, warming to the idea now that he’d had it. “You know the neighbourhood where these women lived and died. You know the kinds of lives they led, you understand them better than some journalist or fancy true crime writer ever could. And you were there when we brought their killer to justice. You were the one to officially arrest someone who’s probably going to be one of the most remembered serial killers of our time. You can make sure the story is told as it should be, through the eyes of someone who was actually there. And you can make sure that Cartwright’s victims are remembered for more than just how they died. Something someone else might not do.”

“I’m no writer,” Fitzhugh said, but his eyes lingered on the board still and there was something speculative in his eyes.

Greg shrugged. “Just think about it.”

“I’d have access to the case files,” Fitzhugh said thoughtfully as Greg turned to go.

“And you’d have the full cooperation of all members of the investigative team,” Greg said. “Well, maybe not Sherlock. His strong suit isn’t cooperation, but you’d have the rest of us.”

Fitzhugh gave a soft laugh, before shaking his head and heading out to see to his own assignment.

* * *

Greg should have known better than to believe that Sherlock would either sleep through until he got back to the house or stay put once he woke up. Still, he’d hoped. In the end, the text from Ann had come just before noon.

Sherlock INSISTS on going to tell Kevin’s pack what happened himself. Can’t make him wait for you so going with him. PLEASE meet us there.

The sun that had finally cut through the clouds by the time Greg pulled up alongside Ann’s car, making the warehouse and the disintegrating pavement around it all the shabbier.

The rusted side door was open and as he approached Greg could hear yelling.

Jess’ voice ringing clearly. “You’re lying! We trusted you, why would you do this to us?”

Greg pulled out his warrant card before stepping inside, part of the standard safety procedures for entering another alpha’s territory unannounced when the alpha was inside. Kevin might be in lock up but there was still his second to consider. This was her home and territory as much as it had been his.

He paused as he crossed the threshold, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The few windows let in little light and an oil lamp and a few candles didn’t do enough to make up for the lack. Nonetheless, it was clear that the small crew had already begun to make this new place their home. The floor was swept clean in the area where they’d set up camp. The tents that could be salvaged from their old place were up around a rickety table and a couple of old chairs. Clearly it had been more than they could manage to haul the picnic table all the way here.

The pack stood together behind Jess, several with their arms around one another. So much like they’d stood together outside their old home when Greg had first seen them. There were no tears this time, though, only blank shock and utter incomprehension. Greg had been so horrified by the idea of what Kevin had done that he hadn’t yet really thought about what his actions would do to the rest of his pack.

Now, seeing their devastated confusion… He ached for them, fighting back a fresh wave of fury at the other alpha.

In front of them, Jess and Sherlock stood, facing off. Ann stood just behind Sherlock, looking horribly out of place in her designer coat and high priced hair cut.

Sherlock’s mouth was open but Jess was still shouting. “He would never have hurt Marjorie, he would never hurt anyone who belonged to him! What the fuck did he ever do to you to make you…”

“He’s not lying,” Greg said cutting off the tirade. Jess’ head snapped toward him, a faint grow emanating from her as she realised another alpha had entered her territory. Greg approached the group slowly, hands out to indicate that he had no intention of attacking. The warrant card in one a reminder of the authority he held.

Jess was clearly unhappy but the growl subsided. She grew more tense as he approached but seemed to ease a little when Greg stepped up beside Sherlock and came no farther.

“Kevin would _never_ hurt one of us,” Jess told him.

Sherlock opened his mouth but Greg beat him to it. 

“Before yesterday I thought the same. Hell, I trusted that he would and could look after Sherlock while he was with him. I was confident enough in my reading of his character to feel slightly better at the knowledge that he would be there to protect someone who belongs to me.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Sherlock muttered, but just quietly enough that everyone could pretend they hadn’t heard it.

“He re-payed that trust by hurting him, threatening to kill him.”

“I don’t know why he’s making up some story…” Jess tried, but Greg could tell what he’d said struck a chord with her.

This time it was Sherlock who cut her off.

“Alex Cartwright kept what he took out of his victims. We found jars with uterus's and ovaries floating in preservatives. He kept all of it. Guess whose internal organs aren’t going to be there when they finish the genetic testing? Kevin knew that. It’s why he snapped and tried to run.”

All members of the pack before them paled visibly. These were the kinds of details that hadn’t been released yet and Greg wasn’t sure yet which ones the yard planned on releasing at this point.

“Sherlock,” he cautioned, but was ignored.

“You suspected something was wrong about Margie’s death,” he continued doggedly. “If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be so angry now. You didn’t want to think that Kevin would have hurt her but you knew, didn’t you?”

Jess was shaking her head, mouth set in a grim line. 

“He wouldn’t have hurt her.” She didn’t sound as sure now, however.

“Well, he did,” Sherlock spat. “He admitted as much in front of me and Lestrade. Ever wonder why Margie sent Benny to find me when she suspected something about the killer instead of going to her own alpha with the information. Why would she do that if she’d trusted him? She didn’t tell him anything about it. She didn’t trust him. Maybe she knew she was in danger, maybe she didn’t. She wasn’t taking any chances though. But you wouldn’t see that there was anything wrong, which was why she knew not to come to you about it. Instead she tried to reach out to someone not even in her pack for help.”

Jess’s hands clenched into fists. “Get out,” she said, her voice harsh with emotion. “Get the fuck out of my territory!”

She didn’t Command them to leave, but the hint of growl in her voice said she wasn’t far off.

Greg replaced his warrant card in his pocket. “When you want to see Kevin, call me and I’ll arrange it,” he told Jess.

He reached out to catch Sherlock’s arm but the kid eluded his grasp and headed toward the exit by himself. Greg waited until Ann followed him before leaving, keeping himself between the other alpha and his pack.

For her part, Jess didn’t move remaining between her own pack and the retreated alpha, even as those pack members began to crowd up behind her. Hands reached out to grasp at her arms, shoulders, clenched fists. In the same way Benny and Calida had sought the comfort of Kevin’s touch when he’d questioned them after the murder, they now reached toward Jess. Greg’s heart constricted even as he felt a touch of hope for these people. This was a strong, solid pack. He didn’t think that this would break them. They were already reaching for the only alpha they had left and Jess was dominant enough that he thought she could hold the pack together.

Still, he felt betrayed on their behalf just as he had on Marjorie’s. Before leaving the last thing he saw was Benny looking after him. There was no confusion on his face. Only a sort of weary acceptance far too old for him.

Sherlock’s long legs brought him to the cars before the other two. He stood with his arms crossed staring toward the glittering buildings of the city centre, face carefully blank.

“You didn’t have to be the one to tell them,” Greg said as he walked up. Sherlock didn’t answer which didn’t surprise him and he supposed was answer enough.

“That other alpha threatened Sherlock?” Ann demanded, clearly upset no one had told her about this before now.

“He didn’t actually want to,” Sherlock said, as though that made it any better.

“He was cornered and tried to take Sherlock hostage so I’d let him go,” Greg supplied. He could see Ann gearing up to demand a more detailed answer than that and cut her off before she could start. “Look, I’ll explain everything later okay, love. For now I have to get back to the yard. I still have a hell of a lot to do and sodding press conference to prepare for. Sherlock, you’re coming with me, I still need your official statement.”

Greg ignored Sherlock’s loud complaints about police procedure and leaned over to kiss Ann. “Thanks for texting me, I’ll call you when I have some idea when I’ll be home.”

She kissed him back with more heat than he would have expected. “Try not to stay too late. You’ve been so busy with this case, I’m starting to feel like I live alone.” Greg smiled, deciding not to say that he’d probably be too tired to do more than sleep by the time he did get home. Still, the weekend was coming up and if he was lucky he could have a whole two days off. God, he needed a whole two days off.

“We need a holiday,” he commented.

Ann agreed emphatically.

They both ignored Sherlock’s petulant mutter that they should get a room.


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished it. *falls over*
> 
> I really hope you all enjoyed reading this. Thank you to each and every person who sent me feedback. You've kept me going when I wasn't sure I could finish.
> 
> I am toying with the idea of a sequel that would pick up where 'Permutation' lets off. I do have other projects that have been put aside, in some cases for months, while 'Pack' dominated my every creative thought. I NEED to get back to some of those. But I truly adore this universe so... we'll see.

It was a truly beautiful spring day when Greg pulled into the Colwith parking lot for what he sincerely hoped would be the last time. While Greg would have liked Sherlock to have stayed for a full ninety days, he knew he was _very_ lucky Sherlock had stayed for sixty. 

“Who’s that with Sherlock?” Ann asked as Greg found a spot. 

Glancing toward the entrance Greg wasn’t surprised to see Sherlock already there, packed and ready to go. 

He remembered Sherlock walking away from him into the cold day after the snowstorm with just a backpack over his shoulder. He remembered picking him up from the Mech Clinic in a grey chill; the backpack over one shoulder and a plastic shopping bag in the other hand. Today, with spring beginning to shift into summer, he again had that same backpack slung over his shoulder. However, no fewer than four suitcases sat at his feet. Mostly, of course, Greg knew they contained books, maps and the chemistry equipment Greg still had no idea where or how he’d acquired.

The fact that he had it at all nearly got him kicked out of Colwith three weeks ago. It had taken a visit from a forensic chemist who owed Greg a favour to certify that none of it could be used to get high and more than a bit of Mycroft’s considerable influence to allow him to stay. Sherlock would have been thrilled to leave then but things hadn’t been ready yet. Greg had a plan. What he hadn’t had at that point, was any way of implementing it yet. He’d been counting on those last three weeks to pull it all together.

No, it wasn’t a surprise that Sherlock was waiting for them. Fitzhugh, however, was an unexpected addition.

When Ann and Greg joined them, Greg preformed the necessary introductions.

“What’s all this about?” Greg asked, smiling to assure the constable that he wasn’t displeased by his presence.

“I knew he was getting out today,” Fitzhugh said. “But since I didn’t know where he was going from here I thought I’d see him off to find out. But it seems he doesn’t know where he’s going either.”

Greg studied the younger man and was pleased by what he saw. Greg hadn’t seen much of him since they finished filing all the paperwork and handed the two cases over to the crown for prosecution.

He seemed better, like he’d been getting a good deal more rest than when Greg had last seen him. There was more, though, some sense of peace that hadn’t been there before.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Lestrade has some plan, no doubt with Mycroft sticking his nose in where it isn’t wanted or needed.”

“Mycorft helped,” Ann admitted. “But only when asked. Mostly it was Greg, Jane and myself.”

That got a slight smile from Fitzhugh and a glare from Sherlock.

Greg pulled his notebook out and scribbled on it. Tearing out the page he handed it to Fitzhugh. “Here’s the address.”

“Wait,” Sherlock said, making a grab for the paper. “ _I_ don’t have the address yet, how does he get it before I do!”

Fitzhugh was too quick for him, stepping back and stuffing the paper in to his pocket, his smile broadening into a grin.

“I’ll see you around,” he said. 

Sherlock glared after him before turning that glare on Greg and Ann who were both laughing.

“Oh shut up,” he said trying to grab all his bags at once. Greg grabbed two of them and headed toward the car.

“So, what did Fitzhugh want?” Greg asked curiously as they bundled into the car.

“He had some questions about the case,” Sherlock said dismissively. Then he glared at Greg. “Are you the one who put the idea of writing a book into his head?”

Greg didn’t answer. Though, his smug grin was probably answer enough.

The drive wasn’t long from Colwith to Montague Street, or more importantly the little road off of it where Ann’s job as a real estate agent had once again managed to find something very useful.

Sherlock had long since stopped complaining and was simmering quietly as Greg pulled into a spot three doors down and the three of them hauled Sherlock’s merger collection of things up two flights of stairs. Greg unlocked the door and they piled into the airy white room that constituted most of the small studio flat.

Sherlock put down the suitcase he was carrying and let the backpack drop from his shoulder. He simply stared around himself at the flat with its large windows and sparse furnishings.

“Where do I sleep?” he asked, then stopped. “Oh, of course,” he said pulling open the doors that hid the bed, which folded down out of them. There was little in the way of furniture beyond the bed, a couch and a table with a couple of chairs. But it wasn’t unwelcoming. The large windows did a great deal to keep it from feeling oppressive. Ann opened them, letting in the warm breeze and sounds of the city beyond while Sherlock poked his head first into the kitchen and then the bathroom.

“Jane and I spent last Saturday scouring the charity shops for this stuff,” Ann said, pulling open one of the suitcases and starting to put the books in it away on the merger shelves. “You’ll need more bookshelves than this but this will get you started. Some of my old dishes are in the kitchen. Please don’t destroy them.”

“It isn’t much,” Greg said. “But it’s yours for now. A chance to get yourself put back together. We’ll take care of the rent for the first six months providing you stay clean. But you’ll have to start thinking about getting a job.”

Sherlock finally turned to look at him. The kid was good at hiding his emotions but Greg was getting good at reading the expressions there nonetheless. He was holding back far more feeling than he’d ever be comfortable showing.

Greg just held out the key to the flat. Sherlock took it absently then looked down at the key chain it was on. Greg had ordered it off the Internet on a whim and was glad he’d done so as Sherlock’s lips twitched into a sardonic smile. It was a small American style police badge.

Sherlock looked up and quirked a brow.

Greg just grinned. “There are always going to be _some_ cases interesting enough to warrant a second opinion. But only if that second opinion comes from someone sober.”

Sherlock grinned, strong emotion once more hidden by cocky assurance. “Considering the state of the yard these days, I suppose I’ll just have to make the sacrifice.”

“I hope he gets a job soon,” Ann said as they headed back to the car a short time later. They’d left Sherlock poking happily about in his new kitchen, having already set up his chemistry equipment on the small amount of counter space. “This is turning out to be an expensive homage.”

Greg couldn’t help but smile as he took her hand.

Homage. It wasn’t a word heard much anymore. Homage was the obligations between packmates, the duty each had to support every other member of that pack. In the modern world where packs could be spread across cities, counties, and – rarely – even between countries, the ties often weren’t as strong as they had been in the past.

He thought again of what had been Kevin’s pack. They had a strong pack, a sense of the homage due one another. Jess has stepped up as he’d thought she would and they would hold.

Then he thought of his little pack. The core was unexpectedly strong. Beyond Ann and Sherlock, he was serving as alpha for one of his junior officers at the moment but Joseph Akers wasn’t really his. Then again, Greg supposed that he hadn’t made much of an attempt to do more than be the man’s alpha on paper. He’d been comfortable pretending he didn’t really have a pack.

That would have to be rectified, he decided. He’d invite Akers over for dinner sometime next week. He’d see if he could really be the man’s alpha in truth and if he couldn’t, he’d encourage him to find someone who could.

“You’re the one who found this place for him,” he said.

“Of course, I did.” Ann sounded as though she were slightly incensed by the implication that she could have done anything else.

Homage, Greg thought and raised their joined hands to his lips. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Not so far today,” she answered in an unconcerned tone. “But words are cheap, Detective Inspector. Care to show me?” The spark in the look she gave him left no doubt about her meaning.

“Well, I’m not due anywhere for the rest of today,” he said, in an equally unconcerned tone. “I suppose if I must make good on those words, I must.”

Ann laughed.

He had a strong pack, Greg thought again as he pulled out into traffic. Small, but strong. Who knew he’d ever wanted such a thing.

  
**End**  
20 August 2015


End file.
